


If and When

by Kamouraskan



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Explosions, F/F, Terrorists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 16:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12821418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamouraskan/pseuds/Kamouraskan
Summary: One year after Paris, and Andy has an exclusive that could lead to be the big break her career needs. Or to her death along with everyone in the Elias Clarke building.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don’t own anything, do not know anything about fashion. But this one is for Gin(stan akasarahsmom)  
> Timeline: We’re from the Xenaverse. Timeline? We don’t need no stinkin’ timeline!  
> OOC Buildings: I have a magic keyboard and I can create the Elias Clarke building anyway I like.  
> Why: One of my favourite Xenaverse writers is Gin. Who honoured me by not only letting me backstage to read and beta her DWP works before anyone else saw them, but actually listened and made real changes to her stories on my advice. It was wonderful just reading the roughs of a writer I admired much less shape the stories in a small way. Gin even visited me in our very out-of-the-way home in the English Midlands, before I dropped off the earth. Or at least the online world. So when Stephanie sent my Halloween invitation, (despite not having contributed for years! Thank you, Steph,) I thought I should thank Gin by trying to write a story in her fanverse. It’s up to the readers to decide if it’s much of a thank you.

**New York City**

**7 hours before the first explosion**

 

Andy Sachs huffed her frustration down the telephone line as the muzak continued to whine into her ear. _Who in their right mind thought the media were too powerful? Clearly no one who’d watched me spend my whole day waiting on hold for some arsehole of a bureaucrat._ _I just want a confirmation so I can get back to my story? That’s all! Come on! Answer!_

Yes, there were less frustrating ways to make her living. Most reporters simply rewrote press releases rather than going out and actually asking hard questions, but Andy still believed in the dream. _Andy Sachs, ACE REPORTER… Making A Difference Since… okay, very recently, but still…_

Well, maybe Ace Reporter was a little, well okay, completely over the top. Especially since the term had probably been retired from any newsroom since 1942. _Of course then, I could have had the fedora, yeah, a dark fedora and a pen behind my ear, talking fast like Rosalind Russell or Katharine Hepburn…_

A tone sounded, bringing her back to reality, or at least to the fact that she’d just missed a call from her editor while waiting for this jerk. She’d call back, if and when, she ever finished this call.

At least her editor understood the dream. Greg wasn’t Perry White, but he called her Sachs from waaaay across the newsroom, and pushed her, and prodded her. Fortunately, nothing like she’d been pushed, prodded, insulted and ground right into her four inch Laboutins when working for the Devil at Runway, though that was part of the reason she was getting so antsy waiting. She was running out of time, the numbers on her phone were turning. _Just maybe, somewhere in a building a few blocks away, there were more clocks ticking. Where was this guy?_

For the first six months she’d paid her dues toiling over four inch fillers. But now, she’d already had two by-lines so far this October. That had been noticed. Proof she was someone to watch, and maybe, respect just a little. Or at least someone to listen to. Clearly no one at Homeland had gotten the memo. Otherwise, why was she being held hostage on hold by a person from her own damn government? Who, when they did speak, sounded like a metronome, _(or was it metro-gnome?)_ She was seriously, very seriously considering throwing another phone into a fountain when, at last! the music stopped and the bureaucrat was back on the line.

“I have been revisiting the file, Ms Sachs, and I really do not see how the fact that persons have taken out architectural schematics of the Elias-Clark building from a library is further proof of your assertions.”

“But the four men I saw breaking into the rear entrance last night…” Andy inserted.

“Three men, entering a building,” the Department of Homeland Security officer countered. “According to your own statement any fourth individual was never visible. You did not see four or anyone breaking in or being let in by a fourth. You saw three men entering. And that is only your statement.” He paused as if to let Time judge how unimportant her statement was to him and in consequence, to The World.

He wheezed and continued, “Three swarthy men, with backpacks, entering into a building in the late evening. Isn’t it far more likely they were simply cleaners, night staff arriving for their shift? Or does your newspaper regularly racially profile in such a clichéd manner?”

Andy closed her eyes. The fact she knew all the shift changes at Elias Clarke was not something she wanted to bring up at the moment. There were several other points anyways. “You have confirmed that the Vice President will be attending a Halloween party in that building today?”

There was an insulting sighing sound. “Yes. But the presence of the Vice President should be reassuring to you. After all, a full search of the building will be done before he arrives and extra security will be present.”

Andy tried another tack. “You know the magazine staff and its publishers have received death threats.” She continued before he could cut in, “AND, your own department has declared an orange alert based on chatter on something going on this afternoon in New York, and I… I am simply being a concerned citizen, and I don’t see why none of this seems to concern you as well.”

“Ms Sachs,” somehow sounding her name as though she were five and had asked to stay up until midnight, “We _are_ mildly concerned. Primarily we are concerned as to why a former employee of the main tenant of the Elias Clark Building, one who left under somewhat unpleasant circumstances, has become such an increasingly persistent ‘concerned citizen’.”

Andy almost dropped the phone. Maybe she was happier waiting on hold. “Why, I don’t see…”

“And we are mildly concerned as to what you were doing in the area when you supposedly spotted these gentlemen, as you no longer work at Elias Clarke?”

Now admittedly Andy Sachs was not a person who liked to lie, but there are times when even scrupulous people deem some things are necessary. “I was walking home from work?” _Oh crap,_ _that wasn’t supposed to be a question._

Perhaps she should think about lying more often. Maybe practice would make her better at it.

“Now, that is concerning, because our records show that your route to your listed address from the Mirror offices is in a different direction.”

 _Which was another reason not to practice; being caught._ “I sometimes revisit the shops?”

Again, not supposed to be a question.

“So the previous answer was a lie?”

 _Stop being defensive, this is my government; they work for me._ “Why are you asking me these questions?” she countered.

“I would think you’d be pleased that your government has taken the time to verify your earlier and even less well-founded threats seriously.”

“Threats? You sound as if I’m the one making threats.” Her laugh was reedy and sounded even to her to be on edge.

“You are claiming that terrorists, swarthy, _Muslim-looking_ terrorists are about to stage an attack on a _fashion_ magazine that you just coincidentally happened to work for, a position which you abandoned, leaving quite a ‘bloody large shit storm behind’, according to one of your co-workers?”

No prizes for guessing what former co-worker had ratted her out to Homeland. And this despite a payout of free couture from Paris that would have left anyone other than Miranda’s First Assistant breathless with thanks. Muttering a very sarcastic thank you to Emily under her breath, she pushed on. “A fashion magazine that recently received death threats about its coverage of how to accessorise burkas and hajibs, which has a party with the Vice President this afternoon, at a time when your agency has raised the alert status for the city to orange, only the eighth time it’s been this high. Something is about to happen.”

“And your former workplace just happens to be the target? Please, Ms Sachs. Even the most naïve of reporters must be aware that magazines receive threats from all sides when they venture into the religious realms. As for being of interest to terrorists, we regularly get calls from curators of General Lee’s beard in Tecumseh, certain that they are a major target for international terrorism, especially after having seen ‘swarthy, Muslim types’ in their museum. Finally, blowing up an entire building for the Vice President? The _Vice_ President?” Andy could hear the shake of the head over the phone. “Though any threats against him are still properly recorded and entered into our files, of course. But what I find even more interesting and possibly concerning is I see that only this morning someone has consulted a demolitions expert as to the best manner to blow up the Elias Clarke building. Do you know who that would be? Because our records show it was a reporter from the Mirror, named Andy Sachs.”

Now Andy really was actually trying to toss her mobile into the nearby pond. It just would not go. It seemed glued to her hand as the voice remorselessly just continued on.

“I’m just very glad to see that you seem to have kept these threats to verbal ones, as your credit cards show no recent purchases of any explosive materials, nor have there been sufficient cash withdrawals from your bank account for such unusual expenditures.”

 _Could eyes really pop?_ she wondered. _I can feel them popping._

The voice continued to drone on. “Though you do seem to have paid an awful lot for your coffee maker and as for your clothes budget, do you really need to wear Chanel as a political reporter for the Mirror?”

“How… how? Would .. **How?** That was a charity shop! I don’t even have a receipt, how, you shouldn’t know that…”

The voice smoothly continued, “As I stated, you should be reassured that your government cares enough to check out even the most bizarre of threats.”

This galvanised her into a complete sentence. “I am not the threat!”

“Then please explain how anyone who, let me find the quote, ‘abandoned the Queen of Fashion to a bunch of ravening dogs in a foreign country during the busiest week of the year without giving a tinker’s cuss about the people who would have to carry the can for her’ is now desperately worried about their welfare? And might I wonder, how did this same person receive a full recommendation from that same employer? My real questions should be, what threats did you make towards that employer previously? Are you blackmailing Miranda Priestly or are physical threats also involved?”

“I didn’t, I have no idea why she….” she sputtered. Andy considered that any further time on the phone was clearly going to send her to jail, something her mother had often implied when she had been a teenager, but had never seemed quite that real before now.

“And then you admit to loitering about her building and lying about the reasons? If there are any attacks on that building, I can assure you Ms Sachs, the Office of Homeland Security will know exactly where to start our arrests.”

Even with the phone disconnected, it felt as though it were still listening to her. When the ringtone sounded another call, she jumped and had to squelch the desire to pull the card and stomp on it. It wasn’t anyone arresting her, but considering her most recent call, it might be just as bad. It was her editor calling back.

“Sachs? I just got a call from Homeland security,” there was a short pause as Andy’s heart stopped, “and after consulting with my magic decoder ring, I think I’ve worked out that they’re really not very happy with you.” There was a longer dramatic pause before Greg chuckled and added, “Well done.” Andy’s editor sounded sincere in his congratulations, but there was more, she knew.

“But…? ” she asked, holding her breath. She wasn’t being taken off this story, even if he pulled her. It might mean lying, which see above, or insubordination, or whatever the newspaper equivalent was, but she was riding this train to the end.

“You still have three pieces sitting on your desk.” He cut off any argument by continuing, “But pissing off Homeland earns you another twelve hours on this. But no more. And I wanna see confirmation that I can print by this evening, eight at the latest.”

“Lemme understand. You’re basically saying I need a big building blowing up or confession from a bomb wielding terrorist for me to get out of an interview with the deputy union secretary?”

“No, I didn’t say that. Since Homeland clearly won’t be giving you any hard facts, get me some pics, at least one other source, maybe a few hundred words with a concise argument. Then you only have to do the other two.”

“Any bombs going off will be before your deadline! How about I come up with an eyewitness account, would that get me out of the puff Symphony thing too? Maybe video of the terrorists? And does the building definitely have to blow up?”

“If it blows up, and I get two thousand words with pics before anyone else… I’ll reassign two of three.” This was getting dark, very dark, but most newspaper humour always was. And they were joking, right?

Andy snorted. “No way. If I get an exclusive pics of a terrorist or the building blows up, I want four thousand words, front page and at least the weekend off.”

Greg gave a moment to consider the deal. “Okay. Exclusive photos of the terrorists, or the building blows up… Weekend off but you still owe me five hundred on the symphony. Five hundred words, you could do that on the subway going home. If the subway’s running, of course.”

“What if I’m in the building when it goes up?”

“I’d want a Doctor’s note, five thousand words, and maybe you get the week off. But only with a legit doctor’s note. Real trauma and it has to be on the page as well.”

“From my hospital bed, surviving the deaths of thousands?”

“See, it writes itself. I’ll still want the symphony piece.”

“Thanks, Greg.”

“Yeah yeah. And Andy? If this is real…”

“Uh huh?”

“Dead reporters don’t get to write the great stories. Don’t be stupid, okay?”

“Ah, Greg. You care.”

“I care… if you have something and then live to tell the tale, okay?”

He disconnected and Andy stared at her phone. Just another day on the job, then. One more call to make. It wasn’t on her speed dial, but she knew it by heart.

“Nigel?”

The newly promoted Editor in Chief of Runway magazine was as urbane as always. “Six. I assume you are calling to tell me all is well and that we can party hearty this afternoon. Or am I about to further regret telling you about the threats over last month’s cover?”

Andy hung her head, before answering. “Nige, Sorry.”

There was a muttered curse at the other end, before she was asked, “Not as if I’m not used to getting bad news. Hit me, and yet still be gentle.”

“I talked to a specialist in demolition this morning, and he wanted blue prints for the building, right? Well, on a hunch, while I was copying them, I asked if anybody else had checked them out before me. And guess what? They were printed out last month. Right after the Hajib issue came out. Me and whoever else were the only ones to access them in _ten_ years since they changed over from microfiche. And enlargements were made of the parking garages by the elevators, and three of the upper floors stairwells.”

She could hear Nigel shifting the phone as he moved to a quieter location. “And this is important why?”

“The demolitions expert said that if he were contracted to bring the building down and he didn’t have a big budget, he’d detonate charges in the parking garage and the main supports are in the outer walls in the stairwells and surrounding the elevators.”

“What did your editor say?”

“What he always says, ‘Where’s the meat, Sachs?’”

There was a short chuckle from her friend. “Have you called Homeland again?”

She swallowed. “Um, yes?”

“Oh. That sounds good. And they said…”

“Apparently they have a prime suspect if anything goes boom anywhere around Elias Clarke.”

“That’s not good news?”

“Not when it’s me.”

Nigel began to laugh. “You? Why on earth?”

“I couldn’t tell them why I was hanging around Elias Clarke, and somehow they know I consulted with a demolitions expert, plus I keep bothering them, really.”

“I suppose admitting you have a massive crush on Our Lady wouldn’t help your case?” Ignoring the short choking noises of denial Andy was making, Nigel continued, “Moving on, aside from you possibly being taken to Guantanamo if I go boom this afternoon, is there any other good news to share?”

“I was hoping that you could get me a pass to check out the building.”

“Of course, I get to sneak the mad bomber in. I’m sure Homeland Security would approve and I’d also get the chance to wear orange day in and out. How could I say no?”

“Nigel.”

“I prefer my conspiracies to be sexual, generally. And principally concern myself. Which makes it even more confusing that I am waiting for you to put on your big Chanel boots and just see Miranda!”

“I am not avoiding her. I saw her at the Gala last week.”

“Oh, my God! You two are impossible. What do you say to her, what words have you exchanged on the three evenings I know about, that you coincidentally ended up in the same rooms?”

“Miranda.”

“Yes, of course, Miranda, who else would I mean?”

“That’s what I said. Miranda. And then she said Andréa, and we moved on to talk to someone else. Or at least I moved on and stood in front of someone else, pretending to talk to them while she glared at me.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Stop saying that!”

“Why do you think she’s glaring at you?”

“Because she hates me?”

“No one hates you. It’d be like kicking a puppy.”

“Tell that to my former friends.”

“I’m your friend. Everybody loves you. That man you just put away for malfeasance is your friend.”

“I don’t think…”

“He gave you an exclusive after he was sentenced! No one hates you. Do you think she would let you keep in touch with her girls if she hated you? They invited you to their recital, for God’s sake.”

“And she glared at me the whole night!”

“You were sitting three rows away from her.”

“So I wouldn’t burst into flames from the glares! Wait, how did you know I sat three rows away?”

“The girls told me. We’re all getting very frustrated with the two of you.”

“You and the girls? They really like me? **”**

Andréa could almost hear him over the phone shaking his head before he interrupted. “Yes, Ms Field, they really like you. Far be it for me to understand the mind of our goddess, but I think you’re upsetting Miranda because she probably thinks you’re walking away. Again. Why do you think she keeps showing up at these events? She knows you’ll be there. I’ve told you, you were always special to her. And if you keep creeping around her, some might think that maybe Homeland has a point?”

“You know I would never hurt Miranda.”

“I know, but it’s a strange world. Why would anyone, even you, waste explosives on the Vice President?”

“I think it’s because there are several targets all in one place. It is after all, it is the second finest Art Deco building in New York.”

“Have I taught you nothing? The building is Style Moderne. The accoutrements, decoratives, mouldings are art deco. You should know better.”

“Nigel! Back to point?”

“You mean you mooning about Miranda? Watching you two playing this foolish game is about the only pleasure I’ve had since she dropped me in this job and moved upstairs. And think about it, Six. Listen to the concern in your voice. Why do you think you would be so adamant, why would you want to be anywhere near here if you’re so certain it’s about to blow up?” He waited for, but didn’t expect a reply, so moved on.

“As much as I’d love to see the next installment in your personal soap, the VP’s men had sniffer dogs and a full lock down is in place, so I don’t see what your coming here would help. And considering your recent success in making friends at Homeland, I would bet you’re on the no-fly list for the party.”

“As if I wasn’t already.”

Nigel chuckled. “Any snipers Emily ever hired after Paris have long since been let go.”

“But she hasn’t, let go that is. She was a source for Homeland! She told them that I,” she paused and blurted, “Well, she told Homeland the truth! Seriously, pleeeease, Nigel? I have to check it out, I have this feeling in my gut, and you didn’t see those guys sneaking in. With matching backpacks, Nigel! Three guys, coming from different directions, with someone opening the rear door for them, all with matching backpacks. When have you ever seen three matching backpacks?”

“In our last summer issue?”

Speaking sincerely was her last weapon. “I need to know that she’s, that you’re all safe.”

And it worked.

“Well, I’d like to know that she(cough) we’re.. all safe too, but I still don’t see how you can help. Have you given any thought as to what you will be doing here? Assuming you really aren’t here to blow us all up.”

“Nigel. I know the building, I’ve got the blueprints, and I have a couple of ideas. I know what those guys were wearing, what they look like. I’ll glide in,” she ignored the snort from Nigel, “check a couple of hidey-holes and with any luck, it’ll all be my imagination. But I have to know. Please.”

“And if you do find them? And there is a threat? You know the only person that could order an evacuation of the building and be obeyed is… ”

“I was hoping y _ou_ could ask…”

“Miranda? Nope.”

“Nigel!”

“Nope. Nope. Nopenope.”

“But I can’t. Even in costume Emily would recognise me and strangle me before I got ten feet near her.”

“But it’s not…” she could almost see the switching of gears. “Actually, you coming here sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Who am I to discourage radical journalism? The rear entrance will have been sealed by the Secret Service, so you can't use the normal terrorist's preferred entry.”

“I know, someone will have to sign me in at the door, and not as Andy Sachs. Then there'd be paper work showing. I’m on the other side of town so the earliest I can get there is before four. Unless you want to check out the stairwells if no one else will”

“Couldn't you just rappel down the building, arriving in a crash and splintering of glass?”

“Real bomb threat, real Andy Sachs. Sorry, Nigel.”

“Let me find someone who’s not coming into work but is on the list, and I’ll text you their name. I can meet you at the desk at four. Afterwards, I’m sure the VP’s men will be happy to chat with me about Guantanamo.”

“Nigel… fine. And don’t think I didn’t catch that hesitation a minute ago. I have no idea what evil scheme has entered your mind, but fine.”

“Can’t wait to see you,” he singsonged.

**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Three Hours before the First Explosion**

Nigel placed his phone on the charger, and sat back in the chair of the Chief Editor of Runway New York, uncharacteristically pensive. So many things seemed to becoming to a head this day; Andréa returning, the impossible thought that there was a real terrorist attack planned for the building he was in, yet his eyes returned to a news headline outlining the filing of a Chapter 7, title 11, for Holt International. The opening of the office door broke his reverie, to the point of startling him when he realised who it was.

The new CEO of Elias Clarke, Miranda Priestly, gracefully slipped into the chair opposite him. There was a shared smile, an acknowledgment that their positions at that desk were reversed after fifteen years. Miranda glanced at the story.

“I have no idea what she was thinking when she took the job.” After fifteen years, Nigel was not surprised at the lack of irony in the statement. Miranda had, after all, engineered Jacqueline’s heading of the company. “She was an editor, a second tier editor, with some knowledge of fashion.”

Despite the fact that he was now at her former desk, some insecurity lingered. “But what does that make me?”

Miranda’s lips pursed. “Nigel, after fifteen years of working as my right hand, you… are a manager. We work where we do because of our love of fashion, but make no mistake. You could walk into a Wall Street firm,” she noted the distaste on his face and added mockingly, “or a firehouse, and bring it to the highest levels of efficiency and success.”

There was a pause as he considered her words. “Could I have saved Holt International?”

“Had I allowed you to take the job. Honestly? The economy was bad, it wasn’t the time for a launch, but given a few years, yes, you could have. But would they have given you two years? How long did they give Jacqueline?”

“Nine months.”

“While I will never pretend that I did what I did for anyone else other than myself, I was well aware that it was the best decision for more than myself.”

Knowing he’d pushed the fashion maven to the near limits of volubility, he moved to change the subject. “As much as I appreciate this walk through of our past, I assume you had other reasons to drop by?”

“We, and of course I mean I, but you in lower case as the head of the most important publication, have a party to attend. Put away the past and let’s show New York the future.”

 

Shortly afterwards, with a drink in his hand if not a song in his heart, Nigel had successfully welcomed the early arrivals to the party, schmoozed as needed, corrected as required, and now rested in a niche, quietly adjacent to the gathering masses where he waited once again for Miranda to rejoin him. Soon enough, the murmured conversations nearby stalled, signalling her approach.

Nigel was pleased to note that despite the seriousness of her expression, her traditional black simply oozing wealth and power, she was in a good mood. Not that anyone else could have told by the wintry expression on her face.

“Can you tell me why a certain individual who wouldn’t dare appear in this building on even her most foolhardy of days, is mentioned on this list of banned persons?” she started in. One eyebrow was arched, which he recognised as only DEFCON three. “Has Emily joined the Vice President’s advisers?”

Nigel continued to watch the gathered movers and shakers watching them, and spoke quietly enough for only Miranda to hear. “Our Six has gotten on the wrong side of the Department of Homeland Security.”

Only a slight stilling of a finger around her champagne glass indicated any reaction. Once a minion, always a minion, he recognised it was his cue to provide more details.

“More importantly, she’s found that the blue prints for several of the floors of this building were accessed shortly after our Islamic Beauty issue came out. For the first time in ten years. And her explosives expert thinks that the plans they looked at are all perfect places for the most effective destruction by explosives. ”

“How does this get her banned from our presence? Is she going to inform the Vice President to death?”

Nigel noted with amusement that her usual sardonic wit, was centred on Andy, and not on the imminent destruction of the building they were both standing in.

“She mentioned these concerns to Homeland Security with some ardour, and they told her that as a former employee with a possible grudge, they found the information to be either a prank or a possible threat on her part.”

Miranda huffed. “What nonsense. Of course, they assumed that she must be a threat. Our tax dollars at work. Andréa? Even when she’s tearing down corruption she tries to humanise her villains. Did she learn nothing from me? When she marries her sous chef, woodland creatures will no doubt attend.”

Miranda became aware that once more, her unusual loquacity was creating a poorly hidden grin on her employee’s face.

“Sous chef? I know that you know our dear Six has been unattached for the last year.”

She glared and responded snappily, “She seemed to have someone to squire her to the gala last month. Did she find them on the street outside the hall? If she’s so worried about dangers here, she’s in far more danger from myself or Emily.”

“I believe her very gay friend Doug accompanied her. And how might that danger manifest itself? Are you going to compliment her to death?” Miranda’s eyebrow rose, which he read as meaning, _I have no idea what you are referring to._

Glancing about the room, he gave her the courtesy of at least lowering his voice even more. “You should have seen her smile when she read me the email you sent her after her first by-line. It nearly blinded me.”

“You have always tended to exaggerate. On that subject, I noticed this month’s Book seems to quite overblown and garish on a few too many pages.”

Recognising the offence in place of a defence, he ignored the ploy and continued, “Acceptable! You texted our little Six that her story on the refugees in New York was… acceptable. I could only wish any of my forays were heaped with such praise.”

“Not if you continue to favour primary and neons on opposing pages.”

Barreling on over the slight, Nigel happily burbled on, “You also commented on the banking scandal story. _Moderately informative_. That one had her grinning like nothing I could have ever said.”

Accepting that she apparently had to engage in this conversation, she said mildly, “Really, Nigel. Do the two of you have these conversations regularly?”

“Six and I meet on occasion. It's called being friends. The simple folk put much stock in such things, so I’m told.”

“And of course, you discuss me. After all, what else have you in common?”

“You’d be surprised. Other than your occasional overwhelmingly gushing praise, we find we have many other things to discuss.”

“Such as?”

“You may ask her yourself in a little bit.”

“Of course, you’ve invited the latest security risk here.”

“I’d tell you how she’s getting in, but I know you would prefer deniability. Though, you might want to join me in welcoming her, as she’s under the impression that this will be a costume party.”

“Nigel.” She laughed. An honest laugh, unlike most he was used to and he smiled back. “And you claimed to be friends. I assume you will not humiliate her by bringing her up here before allowing her to change?”

It was curiously enough, both question and command.

“I have Chanel and accessories waiting in my office in size four that will be perfect for her.”

“Satisfactory.”

Her perfect exit was destroyed as her phone announced itself. Somehow the girls had managed to change their ring tone on her phone to ‘Kiss The Girl.’ Nigel’s eyebrows rose several inches, so she muttered, “My daughters. Some sort of Disney revival fad.” That she was explaining herself, only kept the eyebrows at their current level, and she hoped her closing glare would keep the burgeoning smile from his face, at least until she was able to move away from him.

It was indeed a text from Cassidy.

“ **U nEd 2 go on a propR D8.”**

Eight years of English literature down the drain, was all she could think. The second texts were from Caroline.

**I luv U bt U can't kEp hanging round w us & staring @ Ech othR**

**U knO U wnt 2**

There was no point in a reply. Instead she was imagining a perfect world where her girls had never learned to text, or speak, or stare at her as if she was slow witted.

There were some lovely museum glass display cases she'd seen last week. Perhaps she could have the girls both stuffed, mounted, perhaps gripping a branch with their feet. She was certain her friends would be impressed, telling her in awed whispers, "I just love what you've done with your children."

A returning Emily noticed the happy smile gracing Miranda's face, but there was a terrifying edge to it. So she did what she usually did upon seeing that expression, and refused to acknowledge it.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**40 minutes before the first explosion**

Andréa crossed the parking lot thinking that the misty cold was almost too appropriate for the 31st. As if someone had opened a box labelled Halloween and taken this weather out. Despite lacking any sort of foliage, the parking lot somehow had found a few dead leaves to join the odd bits of trash to swirl and dance about its corners. The chill that was rising as the sun went down wasn’t what was making the hairs rise on her arms, though. It wasn’t even the bomb threat. It was the thought of entering the building ahead for the first time since what in her mind was capitalised, PARIS.

She should have been proud of what happened there. It was such an oddity, that the events there had become beyond legend, even a catch phrase in the minds of many in the industry. Andréa Sachs had quit, walked away, tossing her phone into a fountain!

And lived.

Not only that, but she had somehow been allowed to stay in the state, even the city of New York, was even employed in New York! The entire event had become a metaphor for strange or even suspiciously unnatural luck. If a couturier found unknown financing at just the right moment, or a buyer who had invoiced far too much winter stock stumbled into unseasonable weather, they might be said to have pulled an Andy Sachs.

Most assumed that Andy was unaware of her legend, and this somehow added to the preternatural bewilderment. However, she had made assumptions, and knew that they had no idea that not only had she abandoned the great Miranda Priestly at her most critical moment, but had rejected the Devil in Prada’s offer to mentor her career! Yet, she had still received a recommendation for the very job they were stunned she was allowed to have. And there was another final tidbit that might cause several heads to spin and a certain British first assistant to explode.

But, there she was, standing in the Main Lobby, clad in what was possibly an even greater horror. About to re-enter the heart of the world of fashion she had left behind, in the only costume she could afford with a mask, which was in her size, which was available on the afternoon of Halloween. It was hideous, heavy, embarrassing and it was supposed to be a bumblebee. Or some fetishist’s dream of a bumblebee.

_Ladies, as you can see, Ms Andréa Sachs is wearing a yellow plushy with wide black stripes, and oversized paw hands and even larger plushy feet. The antennae_ _and a tulle mask accentuate the outfit, while the tiny wings complete the ensemble. And to your right, we see the lovely Miranda Priestly, preparing to personally fire the series of enormous cannons now aimed at Ms Sachs…_

After far too long a wait, ( _how does a giant bee do casual?_ ) the door behind reception wheezed open revealing Nigel, in no sort of costume other than one of his usual bizarre blazers, humming in satisfaction. He waved Andy through without anything but bemusement from security at the desk. _This is a lock down? s_ he thought. _Note to terrorists; dress like an frigging idiot, and all doors will be open to you._

Once they were alone in the elevator Nigel’s facade cracked into giggles.

Andréa gave him her best glare. “No. Nope, don’t want to hear whatever you have to say about the costume, Nigel.”

“But, Andréa? You look so Beeee utiful. When you were in the costume shop, did you think… to bee or not to bee…”

“Not original. Thought of both and hundreds more on the way here.”

“And yet you still came. That’s commitment. Something that is definitely in your future.”

“Why aren’t you dressed…” She closed her eyes as the light bulb clicked on. “Oh God! That’s why you agreed so suddenly. It’s not a costume party, is it? “ She turned large brown pleading eyes on him. “Please don’t make me come upstairs like this.”

“Worry not, Six. You do puppy eyes better than anyone, but even if I wanted to, Miranda has ordered me to take you directly to my office… to get changed.”

“Oh thank… no, “ she moaned in pain. “No, I can’t. It’s after four o'clock already.   We don’t have time for me to change, there might only be less than an hour to find proof of these guys and evacuate.” She straightened her wings to prepare to get out on the twentieth floor. The Elias Clarke was a classic building, but so were the elevators. They were incredibly slow, and other than the penthouse and Miranda’s elevator, everyone else had to disembark on the twentieth and continue up by the short run elevators to the fortieth floor. Once they crossed over the corridor and slid into the upper series, she continued her conversation. “Until then, I’ll have to try to get away with looking like this. It’s Halloween. There has to be somebody in this building having a costume party and I need to check out some things before I get thrown out. I’ll change later.”

“If you ever need an evacuation, you will have to talk to the woman with the all evacuation pass, eventually,” he sang.

Andy was pulling out something that was not at all beelike, so Nigel had to ask, “Why, have you got a selfie stick?”

“I think it could help me see the terrorists before they see me.”

“You’re planning to get that close to them?”

Andy bit her lip and nodded

Nigel shrugged but couldn’t resist teasing further. “Wow, but still a pity. Selfies with the Vice President of the United States, Miranda Priestly, the Mayor Of New York, the Governor of New York… and a giant bee? Pictures like that are truly few and far on the ground.”

“Yeah, yeah. You party, I'm here to work, and this thing,” she hoisted the stick, “will reduce the chances that I get shot or the rest of us blown up.”

Nigel blanched. “Only reduce?”

“Nigel. I know the bee costume is hard to take seriously, but I really believe this threat is. Even my magic stick can't eliminate that.”

“When you’re done, there’s a dress with your name on it waiting.”

Andréa’s eyes lit up. “Ooh! Another Chanel? I hope I get to see it. I never wanted to be wrong as much as I am this time.”

“You and me both, kid.” They finally reached the fortieth floor and after another agonisingly long wait the doors opened and Andy prepared to dash to the nearest stairwell before being sighted.

Nigel held the door and Andy moved past him, and had just begun to run when a voice beyond them rang out. “Andréa?”

Your lungs could freeze, Andy realised. You could actually die of embarrassment. She’d had nightmares after PARIS, where they would meet, and she was naked, unemployed and Miranda would simply purse her lips and move on without a further glance. This was actually worse. Breaking in because of some crazy plot, dressed as, well she’d have been better naked.

“Nigel? You told…?”

“Big girl boots time, Six.”

And then, she was there. Standing appropriately distant from her, looking as always, fabulous. Despite her height, her black nylon legs seemed endless, wrapped in black silk, an Oscar de la Renta if she had to guess.

Her tone, was as always, soft, and bored. “I understand you’re here about our bomb? ”

Andy fought the urge to roll her eyes at the casual, yet frightening words. Gathering her courage she corrected, “Bombs, plural.”

“Yes, well that has yet to be seen. Though you are quite good at coming up with stories and convincing people to trust you.”

Ooh, a low blow, already. But there was a glint of humour in the woman’s eyes that she let Andy see, and the reporter fought a grin.

The verbal thrashing was not yet over, of course not, as it was one of Miranda’s daily pleasures and Andy could only dream of adding to Miranda’s daily pleasures.

“Andréa, you are aware of what you are wearing? Oh, of course. A party, and your lovely Midwestern mores assumed that we would be in some sort of fantasy garb?”

“It’s Halloween!”

“How clever of you to know the date. And still not quite clever enough to realise that we are not five years old. Or looking to be pollinated.”

_I am not five years old_ , her mind retorted, but she managed, “It was all the shops had left!”

“How odd. I was passing by Macy's this morning and saw several non-bee selections. Though it is in one way appropriate, I don’t believe bees, certainly the worker bees, survive more than six weeks. You did well to last as long as you did, I suppose. Beeeee that as it may, we have other things to discuss.”

The full Priestly glare was now upon her and she was once again that novice assistant, stuttering apologies that were not listened to. “I, well, I know we said that the next time, when we were, together, well not together together…”

“Andréa?” The soft tones were still sharp enough to cut. “I meant the bomb. Nigel, I am sure that now that your joke is done, you have something more appropriate for Andréa to wear?”

Before Nigel could demur, Andy interrupted. “I’ve already thanked Nigel, but I came here to check a hunch or two right away, and anyways, if there are any bombs, I won't have the chance to change before we evacuate the building. So what would be the point of the dress?”

Miranda’s eyes widened slightly. “What would be the point? Of dressing appropriately? You do remember to whom you are speaking, don’t you?”

“Miranda… I want to be wrong, but if I’m not, I have to know. I’d like nothing better than to argue about fashion, the girls, lots of st…things. If every thing’s actually okay, and you don’t decide to shoot me out the windows with a cannon, I’ll stay, I’ll change. But after I check out a few places.”

“There is security throughout this floor, where were you planning to look?”

“That’s the thing, the security came in today. I’m thinking it makes sense that the main explosives would be in the parking garage, as it wouldn’t have checked because the VP came in through the lobby. But the lower stairwells and elevators would only have been searched this morning, right? So they needed to come in last night and find places to hide near the floors where they were going to be planted, the ones they copied the blue prints for. There’s one place on the upper floors that is inaccessible to the dogs and the male agents.”

Miranda raised a finger. “Ah. The ceilings in the new ladies toilets.” She turned to Nigel. “When they put in the modern lavatories, they lowered the ceilings in the washrooms for all the pipes.” The eyes turned to stare directly into Andy’s. “How would you have noticed?”

Trying not to show how Miranda’s intensity was affecting her, Andy spoke flippantly. “Like many of your staff, I’ve spent hours staring at the ceilings in there, you know, hiding, trying to calm down… for some reason. There are sections that are track tiles that could be lifted for access.”

Miranda’s expression grew cold. “And you’re going in there alone? Have you fallen on your little head again?”

Andy raised the selfie stick. “No, that’s what this is for and only if I see anything that indicates one of the tiles has been lifted.”

Andy could see the wheels turning as Miranda attempted to find alternative solutions, and though the familiar face did not show concern, it was enough to lighten Andy’s heart. Decision made, Miranda spoke. “Andréa, you will not take any unnecessary risks, and I expect to hear from you in 15 minutes, regardless of any discoveries, is that understood?” She glanced about, and instead of the expected, that’s all, very quietly added, “Please.”

Andy responded just as quietly, “Never heard you say please before.”

“Clearly frustration is inspiring my vocabulary.”

“Then I’ll look forward to hearing it again.”

Miranda ignored the sally. “You will call me,” she stated firmly.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**31 minutes before the first explosion**

With Andréa gone, Miranda waited for Emily to reply to her summons. Once she had arrived, she brought her up to speed. Regardless of what Emily might feel about any threat that Andréa represented, if Miranda believed it, Emily was prepared to follow. “The CIA chatter Andréa was referring to, claimed that an event would occur in Manhattan at five pm, and it is just after 4:00 now. If the threat is aimed at this building, we have under an hour to respond. Should she return with any, and I mean any, corroborating information, I would like to be ready to act immediately.”

Both minions lifted notebooks but Miranda waved them away. “I believe my instructions will not be so complex that you need to take notes.” She turned to her former art director.

“Nigel, get the list of the fire marshals for each floor and inform them that we are likely to initiate the emergency evacuation procedure, specifically the one avoiding all stairwells. I want them ready to go and familiar with all aspects of the program. I believe that one requires each floor to exit according to a floor schedule using the elevators in sequence?”

Nigel nodded, thanking his God that he had attended each of the fire safety briefings. “Yes, as all of the lifts on the upper section only go down to the twentieth floor, we need to begin from up here first.”

Of course, there was no indication on her face that his information was new or surprising. “Fine. To encourage speed and reduce panic, you may imply that I am using my new position and some negligible threat as an excuse to once again torture my employees for my personal enjoyment, except I am now able to expand my power to include the entire building. Once I give the word, I want this complex clear in twenty minutes. Twenty, not twenty-one. It will be made clear that anyone who stays will be fired. Anyone who leaves ahead of his or her floor designation will be fired. Anyone using the stairs will be fired.”

Turning to her present Art Director, she said, “Emily, I need to ensure that all recent work for each magazine has been uploaded to the alternate servers. Regardless of confirmation, I want emails to that effect sent out now. Before that, I will need the telephone number best suited to have a bomb squad here in under five minutes. Once you have completed those tasks, we shall relax and enjoy the party for a few moments. That’s all.”

She turned and strolled towards to her VIP guests, stopping only to pick up a fresh glass of champagne. Both of her employees closed their mouths in an attempt to stop gaping at her.

Emily recovered first. “Nigel, she didn’t actually tell us to begin a complete shut down of eight major magazines, and then prepare to evacuate more than five thousand people from a forty-four story office building?”

“And prepare for the bomb squad to arrive because this building could be blown up in an hour?”

“But do find a moment to have a casual drink and possibly shmooze for a bit.”

“Before the whole blowing up part, yes. Breathe, Emily.”

“Nigel, she can’t just walk off after giving orders that insane.”

Nigel shrugged. “I’m pretty sure she did but I’m only basing that judgement on the fact that I was standing here when she did.”

Emily muttered as she stomped away, “Even Dr. No didn’t have minions that have to do the things we do.”

Nigel called after her, “Stop thinking about your dream job and get people uploading those magazines.”

 

**26 minutes before the first explosion**

 

Miranda had just managed a sip of her champagne when her phone vibrated. Seeing the caller ID she answered quietly. “Where are you and what have you found?”

Andréa’s voice was also quiet, but to Miranda’s relief she was not whispering. “Washroom. One floor below? Women’s. One of the ceiling tiles wasn’t even in place properly, and it stinks of coffee. I think it was used to mask the smell of explosives to fool the dogs. Anyway, I took the selfie stick and…”

“Very carefully and quietly?”

“Yes, Miranda. Here’s what it saw. There’s no one up there now, but you can see the gleam of one of the orange backpacks… and the backpack looks empty.”

“So you think that the occupant has moved to wherever the bombs are to be placed.”

“I really, really wish that this was homeless person finding an odd spot to camp overnight, but… This is happening, Miranda. It’s happening here and now. So, I… I’m going to check the stairwells.”

“Dammit, Andréa.” Miranda desperately tried to think of something to stop the girl from putting herself in danger, but all her normally agile mind could produce was, “You’re dressed as a fucking bee!”

Andy froze, having very rarely heard the fashion queen curse. Or blurt. Or show concern for another human being besides her daughters.

“Miranda, I found the backpack. Just me, no witnesses. Any security officials I bring this to, will already suspect I’m behind this somehow. We may not have time to argue and they won’t take measures unless they know what they are facing.”

“And if you startle the mad bomber?”

“They’ll have a set schedule for the explosions, my guy said. If they said five o’clock, he’ll just shoot me and wait the, uhhh, forty-five minutes until five. I’m in danger, not you. Not any of you.”

“I have no idea why that is not at all comforting. You will not risk your life.”

“Miranda, I really don’t want to do this either. But if I can get a face, a picture of the equipment, they might trace who is involved and find out if there are other attacks planned because of my photo. Figure out what explosives or devices they have. We don’t know if this is one attack or several, other buildings could be targeted, thousands elsewhere could be in danger as well. Or they could be rank amateurs and no danger at all. It’s important. You have to see that. And no one else can or will do it.”

There was a moment of huffing at the other end and Andy could picture the pursing of the lips. “I’m not happy.”

Andy chuckled. “You think I am? If you want professionals involved, you could send somebody to check out this washroom. They might find some clues there.”

“Perhaps you could wait until they examine…”

“It’s 4:15, we have less than an hour. I’m already at the stairwell doorway anyway. And remember, I have little bee’s feet, I’ll be extremely careful.”

“No attempting to interview him, do you hear me?”

“I promise.”

There was a strange pause, before an almost startling question was asked. “You’ll be alright?”

“I promise.”

The connection severed. Miranda smiled across the floor at an acquaintance, as she delicately pressed her speed dial. Her expression did not change, but her voice was terse. “Nigel, get the evacuation started. Notify the 20th and 45th floors and start down from there.” Nigel muttered an obscenity while she continued. “Inform Emily that the bomb squad should have been here ten minutes ago and that I will need to speak to the head of the Vice-President’s security team when I get back in five minutes. Then bring me a change of clothing for Andréa and myself. I’m not meeting the press in a party gown.”

That brought a very small chuckle. “Of course not, Miranda. What are you going to be doing?”

“Apparently, I have to go and make sure that foolish girl doesn’t get herself killed.”

 

**22 minutes before the first explosion**

Andy stared at her phone, checking it was set on automatic focus, and attached it to the selfie stick. Her hands were trembling and so she rested the stick on the ground for a moment. _Okay, so heroes get scared. That’s what they all say. It’s just that heroes keep going despite the fear. That’s what they say. But I don’t think Audie Murphy was wetting his panties every time he advanced. Of course, he wasn’t unarmed and wearing a bee costume either. So just open the door, okay? Miranda, everyone in this building and maybe others are depending on you_.

She pushed the door bar downwards as slowly as she’d ever pressed any object before. It swung inward without any sound and disengaged its catch silently. As she eased it open, she paused and listened for any sounds. Hearing nothing, she continued to push it further. Her padded feet were silent as she slid through the doorway. There was a startling ripping, scratching sound, which had her heart jump. She immediately identified it as duct tape being unravelled. Her heart’s pounding seemed too loud, and she was having trouble breathing. _You have to breathe, Andy, just quietly. You still have to breathe._

The familiar sound of the unwrapping continued. It was very close, just around the downward spiral of the staircase. Her hands still trembling, she willed them to stay still so that the photo would not be blurry. She stretched out her hand, reaching the stick around the corner and began taking pictures of whatever and whoever was around the corner and below her.

Once done, she began to carefully pull back the camera… when it caught on the railing, almost falling out of the stick. To stop it falling she had to shift and the sound of the phone scraping against the railing echoed throughout the stairwell.

She froze, knowing the camera was still in sight if the person below looked up. She began to reel it in slowly as the sound of the taping stopped. There was a shifting of cloth; a step and Andy closed her eyes. Continued to slowly pull backwards towards the doorway.

The door in the floor above them opened with a crashing sound and the silence in its echoes indicated that both Andy and the person below were startled. A well known and imperious voice called out, “Stop right there.”

Apparently, Miranda’s voice was as effective on terrorists as ex-assistants, as they both obeyed. It continued, “You know very well there is no smoking on the stairwell and I believe you still have much to do. Unless you are tired of your job?” Andy broke out of her position and began to trot up the stairs where a visibly upset Miranda stood. “To be taking time to fill your lungs with garbage, while in my employ, is inexcusable.”

Once she was close enough, she spoke loudly, “Yes, Miranda. “

“And I do not want to see you slipping off this way again, do you understand?”

She almost pulled Andy through the doorway, slamming the door with emphasis. In an unspoken assent, both women put distance between themselves and the exit. Once that was accomplished, they focused on the phone still attached to the selfie stick. Andy looked at Miranda once before detaching it and hitting Gallery. There, clearly in each of the frames, was a young lad, barely out of his teens, a short barrelled machine gun lying on the ground beside him, wrapping tape around an object just out of the camera’s eye. No matter how she expanded the frame, the object could not be seen clearly, yet it seemed to pulse with danger.

Miranda nodded. “Well, that’s it, then?”

Andy nodded as well and they began to run back to the ballroom. She scanned the rest of the photos on the way. In one shot the boy was almost facing the camera. He was young. All too young. Miranda noticed Andréa’s expression and that she was slowing down, so she pulled Andy hard by the shoulder, saying, “You cannot save that boy. You cannot ever save everyone.”

A white-faced Emily was standing by the elevator, listening to her phone as another group was loaded on to the elevators. She immediately stood to attention as Miranda approached, but froze as she recognised the giant Bee at her side. Before a word could leave her lips, Miranda glided towards her, nothing in her voice indicating anything was untoward.

“Emily, why am I not looking at the head of the Vice-President’s coterie, or are you now working with the terrorists? And call the police commissioner, attaching this photo. Tell the bomb squad we will also need an anti terrorist squad here as of thirty minutes ago. They should start in the basement, and their dogs should be looking for coffee scent as well as explosives.” Emily did not respond, her face paler than Andy could remember.

“Emily, if I feel that you are panicking, you will no longer work in the Western Hemisphere, do you understand?” This seemed to stiffen her spine and she managed, “Yes, Miranda.”

The head of security spotted Miranda and moved to join them. With his ear piece, and dark glasses on inside, Andy felt he was more appropriate for the Matrix films, but he took them off as she showed him a blow-up of the photo she had already sent to her laptop. His expression did not change, but the furrows around his eyes seemed to tighten.

“When was this taken? And how? Where?”

The reporter answered each question in order. “Two minutes ago, by a selfie stick, on the north facing stairwell below this level.”

The detailed and calm response brought his eyes from the tablet to look the woman in the eye. “You would be the former employee that I have on my list, Andrea Sachs? And you took this picture? Do you know if he saw you?? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Not for you, but for everyone in here?”

Andy had just a few too many cups of coffee and even more cups of bullshit from Homeland to back down from this. “You wouldn’t be listening to me if I hadn’t gotten this picture.”

“Young lady, this,” he pointed to the wires dangling from the hand of the boy, “is a deadman’s switch. You know what that is?”

Andy already knew, not that she had wanted to think about it. “If the person holding it lets go, it detonates?”

“Exactly. And this,” he pointed to the weapon on the ground, “This is an MP5K. The manufacturers, Heckler & Koch, call it the ultimate close-quarters weapon. It’s light, easily concealed, deadly accurate even in confined spaces, and fires up to thirty rounds in a few seconds. And you claimed there are several more of these men, on different floors?”

Assuming her heart couldn’t actually jump out of her chest, Andy maintained the cool façade. “That’s what the evidence is saying.”

“How the hell did they get in here?”

“They slept overnight in the toilet’s ceiling crawl spaces. I found an open ceiling tile in the washrooms, and coffee grounds underneath.”

Nigel arrived at this moment and contributed, “We’re halfway through evacuations, this floor had the most people and is almost done, the bomb and anti terrorist units should be here already.”

“Good.” The agent began to speak into his microphone and strode away from them.

Andy and Nigel jumped into pursuit. “So what are you going to do?” Andy asked. The rest of the agents accompanying the Vice President were now grasping the former senator by the arms and hurrying him towards the elevators. The lead agent moved to join them.

“I’ve just notified Homeland to raise the alert status to Red, and we are getting the VP out of this building.”

“But what are you going to do?” Andy asked, pointing towards the stairwell.

He slid into the elevator with the rest of his men. “My job. Protecting the Vice President.” The elevator doors closed on them.

Andy stared at Nigel. “That could be my least favourite phrase in the England language. My Job.”

They rejoined Miranda who was glaring at Emily, whose colour had not improved. “Notify the bomb squad that the man in our stairwell was armed with a…” Miranda looked to Andy.

“MPK5.” She blushed at Miranda’s slight nod.

“An MPK5 machine gun and the explosives had a deadman’s switch.”

Emily listened for a moment before relaying, “The bomb squad says, thanks for the information, but they are already in the parking garages and found one heavily armed… hostile? But they thank you for the timely warning.” Emily paused to look at Miranda. “I think he’s being sarcastic.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**14 minutes before the first explosion.**

“Below 20 is almost cleared. The penthouse, observation and all of the upper floors are clear as well,” Nigel reported to Miranda.

“Then it is time for us to go. I believe we are required to call out for stragglers on our way. We will meet you outside once this has been sorted.” Her English accent was evidencing itself; something Andy had noticed when Miranda was particularly under stress. “Emily, we must make sure everyone has left. Can you do that?”

Emily had become less responsive as more information had come in. Her facial muscles seemed frozen and her eyes glazed. Only at Miranda’s imperious cough, did she raise her head and smile. “Oh, of course… right.” Then to their horror, the normally cool Brit began giggling and spread her palms apart, then her arms reaching to the sky, and said “Boom!”

Even Miranda looked shocked. Andy and Nigel had their jaws open. Emily repeated. “Boom. Boom.” And continued to giggle.

Miranda closed her eyes and whispered furiously to Andy. “How could I, Damn. She was in London, I should have remembered, why didn’t I remember?”

Andréa blanched. “Was she in the Tube when the bombs went off?”

Miranda grimaced. “No, she was on that bus. I’m not, calming,” she stumbled. “… Please? Could you?”

Emily had begun to pant between giggles so Andréa collared her and held her eyes with her own. “Emily, look at me. You’re going right out the door. Right now. Nigel is taking you out of here now.” Emily began to focus, and tears formed in her azure lids.

“But Miranda…?”

“Miranda’s not angry with you, she just wants you safe. We’ll all meet downstairs in a few minutes and have a long drink. Just go with Nigel, okay? Everything’s going to be okay.”

Miranda nodded her agreement. “Nigel, you will escort Emily out of the building, Andréa and I will do the floor by floor and meet you outside.”

Nigel handed over the garment bags that he’d fetched and took hold of the now sobbing Emily but did not move. “Miranda, I will be the first to admit you are the Captain here, but you don’t need to go down with the ship.”

“Nigel, if you can name anyone else with better knowledge of this building still available, I will be happy to let _them_ go down with this ship.” She paused before continuing. “I thought not. Now as Andréa has a working knowledge of at least all of the washrooms, she can do the lower floors. There are several people, at least three on the fashion floor…”

“Four, actually.” Andy interjected while working furiously at her laptop.

Miranda turned with raised brow. “Four what?”

Andréa continued typing her story. “Deaf people or people in sound proofed areas. That was what you meant, right?”

The brow moved to its reset position. “I miss that.”

Andy looked up with a grin. “My mind reading?”

“I was going to say your professionalism, until you ruined it. Let’s get this done quickly.”

The hall was empty, so Andy sent an update of her story and events to her office. She was by the elevator, scanning the doc before sending it, when Miranda returned.

“The rest of the floors should soon be empty, and hopefully the elevator will be freed for us before the clock creeps any closer to five. I’ll call out on the upper floors, while you check the soundproof areas.”

“I’ll be happy to get out of here before the SWAT teams come through.”

Miranda seemed engrossed in receiving reports on her own cell phone, but commented dryly, “Yes, that could get, upsetting.”

Andy took the time to stare at her, and was, of course, ignored. The wait dragged on, and crossing her fingers, she broke the silence.

“The girls were both very impressive at their concert.”

Miranda did not raise her head. “I wasn’t sure that you could hear them from your position.”

“I thought that discretion was the better part of valour.”

Still looking at her phone, Miranda stated flatly, “Discretion wouldn’t have had you kiss me.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “I was very discrete. I didn’t continue…”

“Assaulting me?”

“Assault! You kissed back!”

“And then stopped. I have been patient for over a week.”

“It’s been six days!”

“But apparently you used up all your courage in your assaults.”

“I did not…You kissed back!”

“I have Nigel and my girls both pressing me and I cannot say anything because you stopped to discuss… THINGS!””

“I just wanted, before, we should clear the air…”

Further words were cut off by the ice blue eyes lasering her. “The air was fine. In fact,” she paused, but continued in a lower tone. “There was far too much of it between us at the concert.”

“I wanted to, but you seemed angry.”

The silence returned.

Andy tried again. “I hope the girls got my gifts.”

“Hmmm, they have mentioned that they… they wanted to thank you for the annotated sheet music. I understand it was helpful. How…?”

“They sent me their program, and I happened to know people…” _And spent three days going through obscure bookshops…_

“People? Did you possibly use my name?”

Against her will, Andy’s temper began to emerge. “Believe it or not, **Ms Priestly** , your name does not magically produce lost musical manuscripts. That was all me.”

“Yes, well you have put in quite the effort. Interviewing me.”

“My editor pushed that.”

“Inside the Dragon’s Lair.”

“I don’t write the captions or the headers.”

“Appearing at events I happen to be attending.”

“I was asked. And occasionally threatened. Cassidy has your look down pat.”

“Keeping in touch with Nigel. And with my children.”

Andy turned on the woman, her face now red with fury. “No. You don’t even get to suggest that. I would never manipulate the girls to get closer to you. Never. And you know that.”

A cold front now blew in. It was very chilly with more than a touch of frost.

“Do I?”

_Okay, Fate. Why, as usual, do I have to be the one to step this down?_

“Can we take a deep breath? I’m sorry, Miranda.”

“What precisely are you apologising for? There must be a long list with boxes you could tick.”

_Fate? I’m going to punch her now, THEN be diplomatic, okay?_ Fortunately, Miranda’s phone interrupted them, indicating a message. She read it and said, “The last stragglers have left, the lift should be on its way.”

Andy nodded “That will take a few minutes. If you want to talk properly...”

“Of course. NOW, we could talk.” That withering whisper was back. “Of course.”

Andréa, raised her hands to interrupt what was clearly going to be sharp blade of sarcasm, but the CEO was in full form. “Not last week, or any day in between. NOW, we could talk. But then, that is your special gift. Having no concept of proper timing. Assault your former employer, and then stop!”

“Why do you keep saying assault?”

“Yes, assault and then _stop_. So we can _talk_. When? Not now, let’s delay this until, I don’t know, perhaps, the next time when we’re in a building that is filled with explosives.”

“And maybe we won’t have another chance!”

“And now the clichés,” Miranda shot back.

They were now face to face, both women breathing heavily. “Make up your mind! Are you mad because we stopped or because I kissed you? Because it’s a rather… important …difference?”

Miranda had stilled at the word kissed, and the last of the words had dribbled out of Andy’s mouth without the passion she might have hoped for.

There was a quiet ping sound as the lift reached their floor. “Please,” she asked, “can we, will we talk about this later?”

“To what purpose?”

The words were cold, but there was uncertainty that Andy immediately latched onto. “Because it’s important. More important than any of this,” and her hands swept the room.

The elevator door opened and Miranda strode in, not replying until the doors were about to close. She gave Andy a cheerless smile, saying, “I don’t see the point in further… discussion.”

Then the door closed, and Andy felt her stomach drop with Miranda. _But she was angry, and upset, not indifferent. So she does care, right?_ The elevator to the right of her dinged, so Andréa clung to that bit of hope before getting in. She checked her watch once more. _Not even 4:30, lots of time._

****

**9 minutes before the first explosion**

She’d finished checking the last washroom on the fashion floors for stragglers when her cell vibrated. Expecting it to be Miranda, she was surprised to see an unknown number appear. And an unfamiliar voice began to speak.

“Ms Sachs, this is Ramirez, Bomb Disposal Unit? I was directed to inform you of recent developments. We’ve cleared all of the parking areas.”

“I heard you found something,” she said.

“Oh, yes, yes we did. We found a perp, setting up six large explosive groupings, strapped to the main supports. By complete fluke, he wasn’t holding a detonator when we arrived and he had no communications devices, or we might have lost our men and the rest of the building.”

Being right was not all that it was cracked up to be, she thought, but at the same time some part of her reporter’s brain was still analysing. “That’s a lot to carry in three packsacks. Do you think that’s all they had?”

“No, this guy arrived separately, today as far as we can tell. He broke in through the seals and there was nobody there to check him. Anyway, these are high quality foundation explosives and none of it would take up much space. Just some straps to contain and direct the blast, the explosives and detonators are small blocks, stolen construction materials and the timers you could buy at Radio Shack. You could get at least three, four of the kits we found, could have fit into one of the backpacks you described. We could be talking about twelve or eighteen more devices upstairs.”

_Bombs. Great big building blowing up bombs, not devices,_ she wanted to yell. There was also a large part screaming _Mommy_ , and _I want to go home_ , but ace reporters don’t get to say these things.

“I saw signs that they’d eaten up here, they stayed overnight. Maybe they had water, food … prayer books?”

Her voice must have sounded cool, because the investigator continued as if he was unaware he was speaking to a terrified person. “Nah, most suicide bombers keep it simple. And with the pancake effect, and the basement collapsed, I doubt they’d need more than another dozen devices properly placed.”

“Pancake effect?” Up till now she had liked pancakes, but she was pretty certain this explanation was going to change that.

“Well, you see, when one floor is detonated, the weight of the floors above come crashing into it to cause more damage. But if another series of explosions below that occurs, this drops the weight again with even more impact. And so on with each section. As we all saw with the twin towers.”

Andy stared dumbly at the floors she was standing on, and saw vividly how it would look as it began to crash down, rupturing the floor below it. The crazy man on the other end was still talking. “Anyway. We’re clearing out and moving to a safe distance. We’ll integrate with our opposite numbers and try to help with crowd control.”

_Wait, what???_

“But what about the other bombers in rest of the building?”

“Ms Sachs. I’ve spoken to the team from the VP’s detail…” _presumably from behind as they scurried off into the distance_. “It was only luck we got to the basement operative while the deadman’s switch was away from him. Even if I was willing to send men in there, even if we had time to get up to the top floor and disarm that bomber, the lower floors would know when his bomb didn’t go off. There’s no squad alive, even if one was available, that could incapacitate a trio of armed bombers on several different sites without warning the other bombers. Especially not in the next six minutes.”

Though she really didn’t want to know the answer because she felt like it had been obvious, too obvious all along she stuttered, “Wh, why in six minutes?” _How dry could anyone’s mouth get in one second?_

“The timers on the explosives we neutralised were for, lemme see, five minutes from now. We have to assume others, and specifically the upper floors, would be about the same. I mean, think. If your targets are on the upper floors, early underground blasts wouldn’t collapse the building right off. It would warn them and allow for evacuation. You’d want to guarantee that your principle targets at the party were eliminated first. Everything after that is a bonus. Right?”

Five minutes? Five minutes. Miranda! She increased her speed to the elevators. “Yes, I see.” And she could, in increasingly destructive detail. Why was this guy so calm? “Wouldn’t want the mice to get out of the trap.”

“Exactly. Then the rest of the devices would detonate, each probably about five minutes apart, to allow for the collapse damage, especially with the basement supports ruptured, and that would take the building down. Which even with the removal of the charges down there, I’m afraid could still happen.”

**_He’s_** _afraid???_ She began to press the elevator button frantically. “Did anyone mention that this particular mouse and Miranda Priestly were still in the building?”

This broke through the officer’s calm. “What?”

“We’re still on the upper floors of the building doing a floor-by-floor check for stragglers.”

“Nobody said, Jesus! Get the fuck out of there, Miss Sachs!”

“Yes. That’s a good idea. Wonderful advice. Thank you.”

She hit end with some force and then speed dial. “Miranda, fucking answer your phone!” _Oh, this is the sprinkles of rat shit on a perfect vomit ice cream cone of a day_.

In her mind she could see headlines. Headlines such as, “ **Former Assistant Gets Times Wrong; Devil Takes Her to Hell and Complains For All Eternity** ”.

Seconds later, it felt like minutes before slightly rushed breathing could be heard on her speaker.

_DO NOT APOLOGISE.This isn’t your fault._ “Miranda, the bombs in the basement were set for five minutes from now, the top floors are probably the same.” Silence. “Apparently, the bombs are more effective with time intervals. I’m sorry.” _Damn it! She had promised herself, she wouldn’t apologise._

“And normally I appreciate efficiency.” There was no hesitation following the snark, just a firm, “Then get out of the building. Go.” It was command, and despite ingrained habits, Andy stated, just as firmly, “I have an elevator at your floor now.”

The obstinate women replied, “Then take it and leave.”

There was no time for heroism, or even a deep breath. She simply and defiantly repeated, “I have an elevator at your floor.”

The door opened onto an empty reception desk and there was no sign of Miranda. The phone was the only contact, though all it seemed to contain were more curses. “Damn you, you bloody stupid girl.”

The seconds ticked by and finally there were clicks of heels as well and Miranda was racing towards her. The reporter’s finger found the lowest floor available, 20, and pressed. Miranda leapt in, shouting, “GO!” as if Andy was a horse starting a race or had any control over the electronics, but the doors closed behind her, and there was a long, agonisingly slow pause before the elevator hummed its approval and began its last descent.

Miranda was panting slightly, but asked, “Won’t the lifts be compromised if the supports in the upper levels are destroyed?”

Both their eyes were fixed on the old fashioned number display as it moved too slowly downwards. But Andy gave the answer. “Maybe, but we know we can’t take the stairs and the brakes at each floor should support us even if the suspension above is cut. Anyway. Our only chance now is to get as far away from the first explosions on the upper floors as quickly as is possible and then hopefully make it past the next floors on the schedule.”

“Which floor plans were copied in the blueprints?”

The numbers were moving far too slowly. The number 41 was just disappearing but 40 had not taken its place. “Maybe we should lie down on the floor,” Andréa suggested quietly.

Miranda moved to the floor but still demanded, “Which floors?”

There, the 40 was visible. “42. 38. 32.”

“Bingo.” La Priestly snarked mirthlessly. “Then, we have no chance if they’re right.”

Her eyes were still locked on the dial. Still 40. “No, apparently they will be set off consecutively, so that the building will collapse at five o’clock.”

“So what is your plan?”

“Somehow we get below each of the blasts, and then get out of this elevator before it…”

That they could both agree on. “Out. Yes.”

“With the basement explosives removed, the building might not collapse, and we could simply take the stairs down the rest of the way. With luck, we might be doing that before the rest of the bombs go off.”

“I detest basing a plan on luck. It so seldom is successful.”

_She had to say that, didn’t she?_ But before Andy could complain, their luck ran out.

There was a cracking sound that pierced them and the building, a rumble that trembled everything, then the lights in the cage flickered once and the floor beneath them was gone and they fell in the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See disclaimers in Chapter One

Andy’s ears had popped, but she wasn’t certain if that was because of the impact of the explosion or the corresponding drop the elevator had taken. It had stopped but there was no light at all to see where they were. She seized on one important thing first. “Miranda?”

There was a rustling sound, and a low voice grumbled, “Tell the girls, we are never, ever riding the Tower of Terror again, I don’t care what puppy faces they make.”

Andy squeaked out, “Oh thank god,” and moved to hug her, instead she managed to bang her cheek against the other woman’s elbow. _You simply wanted to hug the woman and she hit you in the face instead. Definitely a relationship ordained by fate._

Miranda must have been thinking along the same lines because there was a rueful chuckle before she said, “I suppose we’re fortunate to still feel anything. We’re alive now, what next?”

“We find out what floor we’re on and get out before the next blast in…”, she squinted at her watch, “in about four minutes give or take. Help me with the door.” There was another accidental impact, before they moved apart to pull on opposite sides, and as they did, a low flickering yellow light illuminated the space again. The building groaned once more and small objects could be heard striking the top of the elevator.

“Power back on?” Miranda guessed

“No, these elevators have independent power packs for emergency lighting.”

“And you know this…?”

“I don’t really like elevators.”

“Before this experience? You are…”

“Foolish.”

“Far braver than I imagined, is what I was about to say.”

“Yes, well, it doesn’t feel that way. Anyway, I find if I research things that I…fear, I can usually handle them a bit better.”

“You must have eventually done considerable research about me, then.”

Andréa allowed herself a chuckle but then the doors moved enough to see the floor printed on the exterior doors. 37.

Damn.

“So what does this mean?”

“It means the next explosion is in less that four minutes and we’re still in the blast zone. If we get out here, assuming we survive that one, we’re above the next and we’d be crushed for certain.”

More debris landed on the top of the cage.

“And if we stay where we are?”

”As long as all that junk from above doesn’t weigh us down, the individual floor brakes should stop us from falling all seventeen flights to the twentieth, which would…”

“Kill us.”

“Always so negative.”

The groaning grew and the cage shuddered along with the building and the noise of striking objects increased like incoming rain.

“I’m running out of ideas, Miranda, but if we do drop again, we’ll need to get out fast. Can we wedge the inner doors open?”

Miranda reached into her bag and pulled out her alternate shoes. “I might have a wedge or two, I would think?”

Andréa giggled nervously as the Gucci heels were quickly and successively pried off with the elevator railing. Miranda smirked at her horrified expression. “Oh please, Andréa. These are by Miuccia, she’d be pleased to have helped.”

The groaning above them did not distract them and they were just getting the second heel wedged in the inner door frame when larger objects began striking the ceiling, and then breaking through to land about them. As the exposed space in the ceiling expanded, through the tunnel of the shaft they could see light above. Light that seemed to twist and shudder.

Andy shouted over the sounds, “I think the shaft is buckling! The supports for this elevator are giving way, it may be about to…” she was cut off as a cinder block came crashing through the remains of the roof, striking her on the head and she dropped to the floor as heavily as the block. Another came after it, hitting Miranda on the foot as she tried to gather Andréa in her arms to the sides of the elevator. The added weight caused the lift to drop, but only a short distance, but it also wobbled from side to side. Holding the unconscious girl in her arms, she was never more aware that she was in a steel box only suspended by cables as it swung about. Miranda felt each moment, each sound and tremble as if in slow motion. Panic was flooding her blood and had it not been for the girl in her arms, she would have bolted, scrabbled, wrenching her nails to claw open the outer doors, even knowing it meant heading directly into another explosion. But the young woman in her arms was so grounding, so important, even unconscious demanding her attention, that her frozen mind focused on that alone. Cuddling the limp body to her. In the flickering yellow light, the blood could still be seen to be staining everything she wore. Though she had some knowledge that head wounds bled profusely, nothing prepared her for the amount that was pouring from the dear girl’s skull. It didn’t matter, it had to be stopped. Her precious Hermes, worth more than she had once earned in a month, was hurriedly wrapped and pressed, but still the blood flowed. She didn’t care that it was soaking through, dripping into her lap and ruining her one of a kind Oscar de la Renta. She tenderly pressed against the wound, willing it to stop bleeding. More chunks of stone, bits of plaster and mortar dropped about them unnoticed.

She had planned every step of her life, pushed and prodded those in her way and above her, fought to be in this very position, only to arrive at this moment where all the couturier, the unlimited credit in her purse, the art and the dazzling jewels she had accumulated were just so much weight, like Marley’s chains. All of the knowledge, the information she could command through her own mind or through her assistants was useless, when all she wanted to remember were the prayers to the God of her youth. To beg for this girl’s life, even in exchange for her own.

Her D&G watch that had matched her dress so perfectly so long ago had illumination, and she was just taking a moment to see how much time might be left, when it ran out again. Another blast rumbled again, the building trembled in pain and the elevator gave up and dropped them again.

 

The light flickered on, and Miranda focused on assessing their situation. Andréa was still breathing, and they were both still alive. There was still far too much blood everywhere, and she became aware of the injury on her leg for the first time. The rain of debris was continuing and as a reminder of their precariousness of life, the cage juddered and dropped a few feet. She stifled a scream as it shifted again. Andréa was still unconscious. Her beautiful face, marred by the blood-soaked scarf across her forehead.

“Andréa, please wake up. Andréa. I need your help.”

Nothing. Not a flicker or a movement or a groan. The cage was filling up with pieces of plaster now, and Miranda had no confidence that it wasn’t about to fall any second. And seconds were ticking away. The door had somehow remained propped open with the heels of her extra shoes and she could read in the flickering yellow light, the stencil indicating the 30th floor. So they had fallen over six floors, but was that enough? It had felt like many more.

Andréa grunted as Miranda laid her carefully on the floor. The outer doors were still a few feet below, but they might be able to get through them before the next blast. They must get through them before the next blast. The extra weight of debris was clearly making the brakes give way, and once more they dropped a foot before stalling. She stuck her fingers into the centre of the door and began trying to pry them open. There was a small bit of give, and then she could see a space. Wedging her uninjured foot in it, she called down to Andréa in her firmest Runway tones, “Andréa, if you do not get up this instant, you will never work in the continental United States again.”

The brown eyes opened, and blinked twice. “Yes, Miranda, I…” In the dim light, the glazed eyes blinked and cleared. “Wait, I don’t work for you!”

“You won’t be working anywhere if we can’t get out before this falls.”

Obligingly, the lift dropped another few inches, moving the outside floor closer to the floor level.

“Right. Bombs, trapped in elevator.”

“How concise,” Miranda approved. Andréa tried to think over the pounding of her brain. “There should be a wheel, a manual control, to the side near the bottom of the door.”

Miranda saw it, covered in grease, but that was hardly what was concerning her.

Andy tried to move, but froze as a spike of pain pressed into her skull. Any clarity she had momentarily gained was blasted away by the pain. She was aware of the light, it was hurting her eyes so she slumped down and closed them.

“What happened?”

Miranda could hear the dullness in the girl’s voice, and as she reached over with great disdain to touch the oily wheel, she spoke quietly, as though to a child, “There was a bomb. It went off.”

With her eyes still closed, Andy asked, “Was anyone hurt?”

Miranda thanked the gods that the grease was not there just to disgust her, for the ancient wheel began to turn. “No one, thanks to you. Except you hit your head.” The door began to open, but what was beyond was hidden in darkness. The air was slightly less stale than inside the elevator, but it tasted of plaster and concrete. The elevator dropped another few inches as a reminder that whatever was outside the doors, it was safer than where they were. “We need to get out of here, right now, Andréa. Can you stand?”

There was a nod, and the reporter raised herself slightly. Miranda’s heart skipped at the whimper that leaked out as she stood. Andy opened her eyes, but shut them immediately. “Why is it so bright?”

Miranda glanced at the dim flickering light and back again at Andy. The girl repeated, dazedly, “What happened?”

The lift juddered, and dropped again, so that it was almost level with the floor. The doors were open enough that she tried to push Andy towards them, but the pain in her ankle, caught her. “There was a bomb, and there is another one about to go off. You have to step outside.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Just us, and you hit your head. You have a concussion, I believe. That’s why it seems so bright. You need to lie down, so please do not exert yourself until we can get you to a hospital.”

“Hospital? Was anyone hurt?”

“You have a concussion,” trying to think how long the girl had been unconscious and what that meant for her condition. “I’ll hold the door open and you move slowly, no increase in blood pressure, I insist.”

Andréa was pressing buttons on the control panel, asking plaintively, “Don’t we want to go down?”

Miranda grasped her hands and prodded towards the gap in the door.

“Yes, but preferably at speeds the human body can withstand.”

“Wait,” she mumbled. Miranda was about to simply shove her through the doorway when she realised the girl was trying to pick up the garment bags with their change of clothes. There was another crash from above, and the elevator dropped, placing it directly at floor level and Miranda pushed Andréa and the bags through the gap. As she attempted to follow, another shift occurred, dropping only a few inches, but enough that Miranda tripped on the outer floor, falling out of the elevator and to Andréa’s side.

“I think I’m in shock,” she heard the reporter mumble.

The last shift must have shaken the wedges out, and Miranda felt the inner elevator doors closing on the toes of her injured foot. Despite the pain, she attempted to shake it loose, but it was caught firmly in the doors, which dropped another few inches, pulling her with them.

Above the elevator, Miranda could hear the sound of what she knew were the main supports dropping into the shaft. She closed her eyes, knowing their weight would be the final straw and she would follow the compartment down the shaft. But with a resounding crash, the supports were caught in the width of the shaft above them, their weight digging, gravity dragging deeper into the walls above them, clawing their way through the steel and plaster, flecks of each sprinkling all around them. As her leg was pulled downwards again, it seemed as though the flecks were sand in an hourglass, defining her time left.

“Shake your foot!” She turned in the darkness, surprised at the clarity of the voice coming from beside her. “I know it hurts but if you still want to have a foot…”

“Or a body attached to it?” she sniped, masking her relief that Andréa was again with her, if only for her last moments.

“Please, Miranda?”

“It won’t move, I’ve tried.” She forced herself to calm. “Just as everyone expected. Death by Prada. And screaming my lungs out down an elevator shaft. If you manage to survive me, you will not tell anyone this is how I died, do you understand?”

There was a sound of movement, then a touch by her side. “You’re not going to die. Anyways, I’m pretty sure they all assumed a house would fall on you.”

“How is that at all funny?”

“We’re not going to…die.” Necessity seemingly driving her mind to focus, Andy reached behind and dumped the contents of her purse; this was not the time to scrabble through her bag. No knife, only nail clippers. Taking a breath and not entirely sure this was a sane action, she grasped them and slid alongside Miranda's body. There was an immediate objection, though not the one she expected.

“I am not taking you with me, damn it!”

There was another groan from the metal above them and the elevator cage shuddered, shaking Miranda's leg, and the executive bit back a gasp of pain. Andy continued to crawl slowly along Miranda with the nail scissors upraised.

“Andréa, get back and away. I cannot be responsible for you dying as well.”

“Would it help if I told you I have been dreaming about something almost like this for a while. Though not fully clothed.”

Miranda gave a choked chuckle. “You foolish, foolish girl.”

“Goin down.”

“No elevator jokes.”

“Too soon? It was a triple entendre though.”

“When I'm not about to be pulled screaming to my death I'll be far more entertained... By your mastery of the language…. ah!”

“See, this really is a job a million girls would die for. At least if this doesn't work," Andy shimmied closer to her target, "you don't have to worry about me telling how you died. Though I bet I can scream much more loudly falling down the shaft.”

“Good,” Miranda agreed with some degree of satisfaction. “You’re not forgetting that there is supposed to be one more explosion, are you?”

“One problem at a time, please.”

As she’d expected, the heel and base of the shoe were compressed and even when Miranda’s foot was in her grasp, the doors would not release it. She could hear Miranda muffling a groan as she was forced to shake the bruised ankle. “The strap won’t tear off. You got your moneys worth with these. Remember to tell the manufacturer.”

“First thing, yes.”

The clippers made a small bite into the leather strap, but the next drop was several inches and pulled her further down, until her right arm was pressed against the doorway. Miranda’s legs were almost entirely below the floor. “You foolish girl, get off before…”

“Sorry, can’t hear you and… there!”

The strap tore away, and as if the entire compartment had been held only by Miranda’s strength, the elevator compartment dropped, Andréa pulled and rolled them both out of the way as the cables and supports screamed past them in their death throes. They had only seconds of relief before the third explosion rippled through from below and the space around them thundered and crashed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See Disclaimers in Chapter One

 

The floor they were lying on shook as though an express train was roaring underneath them. There were grating, sliding sounds above, as what she assumed were section of floors and ceilings sliding off the building and plummeting to the ground below. Miranda realised that she was probably clutching too tightly to the reporter, but Andréa was only real thing in this nightmare and she refused to let go. The sounds eventually diminished, leaving the occasional groaning echoes, which were almost as frightening.

There was no light and her mouth and skin seemed caked with dust. Miranda’s traitorous mind flashed back to the lung problems that had been endured by the survivors of 9/11.

“Not sure the air is breathable,” she huffed out. To her inexpressible delight, there was a response.

“On it, but no back talk, okay.” She would have taken a breath of relief, but the dust was even thicker, possibly now that she was more aware of it. She could hear tearing sounds, which confused her until her broad knowledge of fabrics, of even the most inferior materials, came through. As grateful as she was that the girl was still there in mind and body, there were standards to uphold. “I am not having that abomination touching my skin.”

There was a dramatically exasperated gasp. “It’s almost a perfect filter, and if you say it’s filthy because it was already touching _me_ , and refuse to accept it because you’d literally rather choke to death,” Andréa began to cough herself, “Then I will be seriously insulted.”

_Really?_ “Unlike every other time I’ve insulted you?”

“The smart fat girl is tearing up her bee suit to use as a filtering mask. Use it and say thank you, smart fat girl.”

With enormous misgivings, a touch of guilt at the remembered insult, and an almost, almost, unheard ‘ thank you,’ she accepted the cloth and began knotting it behind her head.

The adrenaline was still causing a small trembling in her arms, spiking each time the building shuddered, so she lay back, breathing slowly, ignoring the hideous _thing_ that was covering her face. She felt Andréa do the same, and the building seemed to settle along with their heartbeats. In the near quiet, she was not surprised when Andrea broke it, but was somewhat shocked with the enthusiasm in her voice.

“That was exciting, wasn’t it?”

Miranda only barely managed to hold back an astonished chuckle. “Our series of near death experiences. Until the next, likely final one? Really, Andréa?”

There was another theatrically resigned sigh from the girl. “You’re no fun when I’m concussed. Next time you have the head injury, okay?”

This time Miranda could not stop the laugh that bubbled out.

This time the sigh was one of contentment from the girl and Miranda pondered how this strange person could possibly find satisfaction in a moment like this. Miranda did not see herself as either optimist or pessimist; always a realist. _Except when your emotions get in the way, as with anything to do with this girl._

But they were trapped on the 30th floor of a dying building, with little more than a few dozen square feet as their tomb. What could this girl find pleasing about any of it?

“So everybody's out? We saved everybody?”

_Of course._ And her resentment, of the purity resting beside her, snapped off of her tongue. “Yes. You did. Except for ourselves!”

“We’re alive now.”

“You remind of the man who fell 40 stories and was thinking, _so far, so good_ around the 10 floor.”

Miranda could almost feel the glare emanating from the girl beside her. “Andréa, the first lesson in glares, is that there must be enough light for the glare to be visible to others.”

There was a self-satisfied chortle. “Must be pretty effective if you know I’m glaring at you in this dark.”

“Yes,” Miranda allowed. “I’m certain that if I could see it, I’d be filled with an almost uncontrollable urge to allow you to be fed under the table.”

In response, Andréa starting moving about, and from the sounds she was making, Miranda imagined she was pawing through the objects tossed from her purse. Miranda reached out blindly to stop her from moving.

“Stay still, and quiet, preferably. God knows what could happen if you exert yourself.”

“We can rest when we’re dead.”

“Something to look forward too in a few minutes, then.”

“Shush.”

“I truly think I preferred it when you were terrified of me.”

A faint light appeared and Miranda could see the reporter was examining her cell phone. “Check your phone. I’m not getting a signal. And my battery’s low.”

“Why would I carry a phone,” she stated flatly. “Why do you think I have assistants?”

Andréa laughed. “We do not have the time to even begin that list. Damn, I’m getting no bars at all.”

“Then… please. Lay back and relax. We do not need you getting an aneurysm, and you lost quite a bit of blood.”

“If you’re going to say please…” In the dim light, she caught a surprisingly affectionate look, before the girl slid down to lie beside her.

Before Andréa could shut the phone down, Miranda reached over, but without her usual imperiousness, asked, “May I have that for a moment?” Andréa appeared unsure, handing it over, saying, “We can’t waste the battery.”

Miranda passed the light over Andréa’s face, noting the bandage was holding and the blood was drying, though Andréa cringed and looked away as the light approached her eyes.

“Your pupils are dilated,” Miranda pronounced.

“Of course they are, you’re flashing a great big light into them!”

“Hmmmph.”

“Go hummph someone else, we can’t just lie here for long, we need to know what’s going on and what our assets are.”

“If you lay down, I am perfectly capable of…” there was a muffled shriek, as a section of the building very near shifted again, and the groan of pain rumbled once more.

“As I was saying,” Miranda was pleased to note that her voice did not tremble as she continued, “You should enjoy having me run about for you, while you stay there and analyse for once.”

“Analyse, is that what you did when we were running around?”

“As I said, it was far preferable when you were terrified.”

Though the light from the phone was dim, Miranda raised herself and there was the occasional blurted _bloody hell_ as she collided with something. "We're surrounded” she finally reported, her voice crisp, as though describing the weather. “All sides. Ceiling is angled, about 60 degrees, any gaps seem to be filled by more ceilings, or floors from above on top of them."

The beam skimmed along the cramped area. The ceiling was still shaking from the last avalanche, slightly collapsed from the height above them, then angling down a few dozen feet before colliding with the floor. "I think the only thing holding this building up are the supports around the elevator shafts, though I refuse to hazard a guess for how long."

“I bet the outer supports all collapsed once the load from the main ones was shifted. It probably looks like a Christmas tree from the outside,” Andréa mused.

“How seasonal of us. Perhaps we can arrange for a string of lights.”

“I have missed your humour, Miranda.”

“Irony in the face of death would be one of my standouts.”

To their right, the floor below had somehow pressed upwards, pushing a series of desks, presumably the reception area, caging them in between the elevator doors, and the angled ceiling. Andréa hooted when she saw the desks, crying out, “Food and water!”

Worried for her sanity, or at the very least her vision, Miranda began, “Andréa, I’m not sure…”

Andréa interrupted. “Miranda, just because you don’t allow people to consume anything at their desks, doesn’t mean every one else does. I will bet you anything there are bottles of water, chocolate, maybe even a sandwich or two in the upper drawers.”

Dragging her lame foot slightly, Miranda carefully crawled to the desks, avoiding the cracked tiles in the dim light. “Food is the least of our needs.”

“You want to rest and replenish. Then we plan.”

Miranda shook her head at the reporter’s optimism. The first drawer revealed nothing but office supplies. The lower ones were blocked by a wedged chair. “You know they will not risk anyone entering this building. There will be no rescue.” The next desk was more interesting, though.

“I hardly see either of us as damsels in need of rescue, though I wouldn’t turn away a knight in a white helicopter about now.”

“Would you settle for some warm carbonated sodas?” Miranda said, brandishing her discoveries.

“That was my next request.”

Andréa reached over, but Miranda ordered, “"You stay there."

"What about your foot?"

"Never mind about my foot, you…”

"Rest my pretty little head?"

“Stay there. Minutes ago you were in shock. We have no idea how much damage you’ve done to your skull and my leg hurts like hell. We are resting.”

“For now.”

There was also a sandwich, another cell phone, and some sticks of meat she shuddered to consider as food. She brought them over nevertheless, dropped them on the floor, before folding her leg carefully and collapsing beside Andréa.

She opened the cola and handed to Andréa, as they lifted their facemasks, while breathing through their still covered noses. "Your optimism is laudable, I suppose. But the facts are, we are not going anywhere. Except of course, with some speed and most certainly, considerable pain."

“We just survived three major explosions. I’d hail that as highly impressive. For our next trick, we just need to get down or out to where we can be seen and rescued.”

Miranda shook her head, withholding the continuing surge of admiration for the girl. The cola burned her throat, and she wondered if that was normal, or from the debris she had inhaled. Andréa picked up the newfound cell phone and checked the battery and connections. “No bars either?” Miranda guessed.

“When the building went down, there probably was a panic, and the phone service would have been overwhelmed and crashed.”

“Possibly, but most of the carrier masts were on this building, the antennas were moved here after 911, Irv wanted the revenue.” She paused. “He wasn’t a complete idiot.”

“You can afford to be magnanimous now.”

“Oh, I didn’t say he wasn’t an arrogant little toad.” Andréa chuckled, but it was cut off by another groan and crash from somewhere above them. They could see the plaster raining down on their shelter, before Andréa reluctantly turned off the phone. “We might need the batteries later.”

There was a series of creaks that unnerved the CEO. The comfort of seeing the girl, even in the faint light, was too consoling to lose. “Put it on for a moment. If there is no later, I would prefer to have a little light now.”

“Or we might find another phone.”

There was silence between for a moment, only the shifting of the building around them could be heard.

“I bet all the nearby buildings are evacuated in case of god knows what else. Hey, we don't even know if we were the only target?”

“Stop thinking. Resting, remember?” Miranda admonished. “Lie back,” Her voice was soft as always, and had it been anyone else, it might have almost been tender. Andréa leaned her head alongside Miranda’s. There was another shift of ceiling somewhere. Miranda strained her ears; she could not hear it land. How many layers were insulating them from the outside world? She shifted her feet and struck the garment bags she’d retrieved from Nigel so very long ago. “Why, in your shock stupor, did you save those dresses?”

Andréa chuckled. “Those, my dear, are for when we walk out of here.”

Miranda snorted. “ When? At the very best, if.”

“When.”

“Why are you so positive? How perfect was your life?”

“You really want to know?” She caught the far more experienced glare. “Ah, you wouldn’t have asked otherwise. Well, not great, lately. I mean, I know I’ve been lucky. Stable household, only minor financial worries, but then… that can make loss more painful.”

Miranda turned to Andréa, her eyes posing the obvious questions she still felt ill at ease asking.

“My parents have decided to divorce.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, with the last child gone, they decided they had done their duty, and, and… these are my father’s words, _to pack up the firm._ A lovely lawyer’s summation of my childhood home, right?”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I sort of lost my Mum. She felt that she had enough on her plate without me making _ridiculous attempts at gaining attention_ by questioning my sexuality.”

“Andréa…”

“It’s helped my writing though. Makes me more willing to question what is real, when you wonder about what really happened behind the closed doors. But I also still believe we only lose when we give up. I don’t want to do that.” Their faces were very close as the girl finished with, “And I don’t want you to do that.”

“Andréa, I am a realist, I can’t ignore the blindingly obvious, that there is very unlikely to be a _when_ where we walk out of here.”

“Compromise. When and if.”

Shaking her head and with a weak smile, Miranda allowed, “If and when.”

“Deal. Can we shake on it?”

“As opposed to simply the building?” They still hadn’t moved away, somehow even the ludicrous bee face masks were somehow less offensive, and they were almost whispering now, in the eerie silence.

Mimicking Miranda’s actions of moments before, Andréa listened to the silence. “Can't hear sirens or anything. Must be really sealed in here. Though, I bet most of Manhattan is shut down.”

“Good. If I can't work, why should anyone else?”

Andréa chuckled. “There's the maniacal despot I love.”

Miranda coughed. “Love?”

“That’s sort of the point…”

Miranda could sense that the girl was in a confessional mood, and looking at what she was now seeing as her tomb, she tried to forestall it. “Andréa. This is not the time.”

There was silence again, but not for more than minute. “As you’ve said, we’re not going anywhere right now. You really aren’t at all interested as to why I kissed you and or why I stopped?”

Miranda turned away. “You are truly mad. This is definitely not the time. Not when… what is the point?”

“I just, I just wanted it all out. It was like a cloud hanging over every time I saw you. I wanted to be honest. If nothing else, these circumstances should ensure that we’d be honest with each other.”

All that got her was a ladylike snort. “When have I not been honest?”

“You know what you did, Miranda.”

To her dismay, the chilly whisper made a startling return. “What I did? Really Andréa, that covers such a finite range of activities.”

“Miranda,” Andréa pushed on. “You sent me away. In Paris.”

Against her will, her defenses rose and Miranda could feel her lips tightening. “Strange, I could have sworn you walked. Quite saucily I thought.”

“In Paris. In the car. You deliberately pushed every button I had, and you knew, _you knew me_ , you knew I would walk.”

Miranda still refused to look at Andréa. “And how long did it take you to reach this… conclusion?”

“I guessed, almost right after, but…I was afraid…”

“Yes?”

“I was afraid, I was, as someone once said, living on hope. How can anyone ever be sure about …you?””

The fine brows peaked. “I thought you used words for a living?”

“Give me a break, Miranda, I may have had a year’s worth of rehearsal, but this is not quite the stage I was hoping for.”

_Not the stage I hoped for either,_ Miranda thought. But she stilled and waited. Andréa took a breath. “I knew, pretty much, when I found my ticket online, for my return to New York.”

“One might assume that I must have forgotten to cancel it.” The cool, clipped question did not indicate any interest in the subject.

Andréa replied with a similar offhand manner, “That was an unlikely possibility from the Marquess of micromanagement.” There was a small reduction in tension as Miranda acknowledged the alliteration. Encouraged, Andréa continued, “But it was only a possibility. I thought, hoped, it might be a message… of things. So I sent one of my own.”

“A message?”

“I took a risk.”

“You took a risk.”

“I did.”

“Ah. You gave my name as a reference for that paper.”

“I did.”

“Not Nigel, not HR’s. My name.”

“And to my relief, and perhaps even my shock and surprise...”

“That’s a redundancy. So what you are saying is, you came to this conclusion over a year ago, through this sending of messages. What did you decipher from them? And why are we only now discussing them, a year afterwards?”

“That I was young, very gullible, and that time would take care of those things.”

Miranda grimaced as she took a sip of the warm cola. “So you felt enough time had elapsed.”

“I think, the time, spending moments with you and the girls, I think we might be getting there. But… sometimes I still get a bit angry.”

“What right, do you have to be angry, with I assume, me?”

Andréa kept her voice level. “See, I think I got too close back then. As an employee, and you made a decision. I think you decided after you sent me away the night before.” Both women‘s memories flashed back to a tearful Miranda, and the divorce papers, as Andréa continued, “You decided that I had to leave without being fired. But it was a decision made for me, without _asking_ me.”

“I gave you a choice. AND you took it.” Both their voices were rising.

“A choice you manipulated me into taking. You had no right, you should have asked me.”

“And why and what should I have asked?” Now there was anger and remembered pain in Miranda’s tones that Andréa recalled from that night. “What were you risking?”

“You know what I risked.” Andréa paused, and swallowed any further words.

Miranda’s voice did not soften at this, if anything the tenor became colder. “For all your talk of becoming older, you are very, very young, Andréa. I thought a crush on your part would heal.”


	8. Chapter 8

_“For all your talk of becoming older, you are very, very young, Andréa. I thought a crush on your part would heal.”_

Andy burst out laughing. Even as she did so, she knew the effect it would have on Miranda, but she couldn’t help herself. And from the stiffening and withdrawal she could sense from the figure beside her, Miranda’s walls were not only higher, but the drawbridges were being pulled up as well.

A tone she hadn’t heard since the cerulean blue lecture arrived on the scene. “You think this is amusing?”

If her head hadn’t ached so much, she would have face palmed. “I think you’re incredible, in all of the best and worst definitions of the word.”

“I am trying to get you to see reality.” The words were fired back at her.

“Reality?” she choked out. “Miranda? You think we’re about to die and you’re still protecting a line. We crossed that line months ago.”

“What are you referring to?”

“You had no problem with Nigel going out for drinks with me, a reporter! You let me stay in contact with your children. Your babies! You let me attend their school events. We kissed, Miranda. We have shown more care and feeling for each other in the past, what is it, six hours, than some couples do in a lifetime. And, yes. I was making a lot of assumptions back then, but now they’re facts.”

“You seem to forget who, and what I am”

Andy tried to raise herself, only to find a surprisingly firm hand holding her in place. She considered resisting, but her headache convinced her otherwise. “Do you really think I have,” and possibly, just to irritate Miranda more, she made air quotes, “a crush on you? Do you think I haven’t thought about what this could mean to me, or that I don’t know who you are? I do! I know better than Stephen, or any of the toys you’ve carried about on your arm all of this year. You are the most aggravating, agitating, and this is just the A’s, abusive, affected, afflicted… alienating, and yet…”

“Oh please. Don’t stop now. Perhaps I can have this recorded for my eulogy.”

“In fifty years, perhaps we’ll need it. But you are also so much more. To me. You’re also absorbing. Assured, accomplished, admirable, amazing… Amusing, arousing and every minute I have spent with you has an adventure. And yes,” she threw in triumphantly, “I do use words for a living.”

That gained a real laugh from the magnate. “Arousing?”

“That’s what you took from my rant?”

“If I listened to only the criticism, I’d have grown deaf years ago. But you forgot… aging.”

“Oh please. You’re going to be beautiful until you’re 90. I wish I had your skin, though, you know,” and she let her voice slip into a lower register, “the next best thing will be…” She moved the lit phone screen towards the woman’s face. “Oh My God. You are actually blushing. I made you blush and it’s getting worse now!” She examined her words, and corrected and cackled, “Better. It’s getting better.”

Shaking hands attempted to push the phone away, as Andy continued. “I can’t believe it. You are _adorable_!”

Trying to ignore her still flaming cheeks, Miranda drawled, “Now that I am sufficiently humiliated, will you get to the point?”

“The point? The only reason I just had the nerve to push you past this incredible bluff you just tried,”

“Bluff?”

“Yes, bluff.” Andy was on firm ground now. “The only reason I had the nerve was because we both know… that a crush that was only on my part, even back then… would not have required me to be encouraged to quit.”

“Would you have preferred to have a sacking on your up-till-then pristine record?”

“At the time, I know I appreciated the hitherto unknown effort of consideration from you,” she mocked. Then continued softly, “but as I said. It wasn’t your decision alone when it involved my life. Leaving me uninformed. But. What if my feelings were not one-sided, I thought?”

The still blushing CEO managed to say, “When you make up your mind, you must inform me.”

“I made up my mind a year ago.”

“So?” Miranda gestured about the darkened space. “Look around you, what difference did my living in hope make in the end? Can you really still see a future? Beyond an hour? Do you see us growing old or in my case older? Can you see us going out together, being a couple, having meals at home with my…” and Miranda’s traitorous voice broke, “…my _children_? What conceivable reason, what purpose was there to ever hope when it concluded here?”

Having little to lose, Andy muttered, “Maybe I can’t give you reason, but I can damn well give you some fucking purpose.” Reaching over, she slid off the mask. She took both hands to the delicate alabaster cheeks, and she drew her former boss into a light but she hoped, meaningful kiss.

It should have been terrible.

Their lips, faces, bodies, were covered in particles and dust.

It should have been awkward.

They were barely able to move; just aligning their faces should have been a chore.

It should have been frantic.

On the cliff edge of life and death, the adrenaline swinging them from fear to despair.

And yet…

It felt of everything Andréa had wished it would be. And it tasted,

It tasted of hope.

Andy pulled back, still terrified that there would be shock, horror or worse, disdain on the fashionista’s face, but there was a small, very small smile. “Well?” the reporter asked breathlessly.

Miranda appeared to pause to consider. “It seems I can appreciate irrational purpose.”

That small confidence was rewarded by another light kiss. “And if there is hope? Would we be able to do this more often?”

“I could look forward, if…”

“When,” Andréa said firmly.

“If and when. But for now,” to Andy’s immense disappointment, she shook her head and mood, took the cell light out of Andréa’s hands and began to raise herself, “I am not raising your blood pressure any further. You need to stay still and I need to check more of those desks. If your optimism is anything to go by, there’s likely to be a pair of parachutes and chainsaw in one of them.”

“Now you’ve got it!” The CEO grimaced at the enthusiasm, and let out a short groan as her injured foot announced itself.

“You shouldn’t be walking on that foot,” Andréa reprimanded.

“You shouldn’t be thinking with that head. Lay back,” Miranda shot back.

“I will, if you take it easy.”

“It’s simply stiff from lying down. Not as if I can go very far.”

Andy tried to focus on the sounds of her rummaging about, but the throbbing from her injury was becoming overwhelming. “If you find any aspirin or paracetamol...”

“Not with a head injury, or concussion.”

“But I have a terrible headache.”

Miranda stilled and turned the phone’s beam towards Andréa. “Don’t say that. Those were FDR’s last words before an aneurysm killed him.”

Andy gave a faint grin in the light. “Relax. If they were his, then they can’t be mine.”

“Go to sleep,” Miranda ordered, but she was smiling again.

“To the gentle sounds of the building shifting?”

“It is the stage we find ourselves on.”

“I will close my eyes if you make me a promise. No. Plural. Promises.” The girl’s voice had grown softer.

Miranda tried to sound aggrieved, but did not succeed. “Promises.”

“You'll ransack those desks for food, drink, anything else we might need.”

“Proper face mask filters.”

Ignoring the dig at her costume, she said, “I want you to promise, that when we get out…”

“If.”

“When.”

“What?”

“Ice cream. With the girls. You. Me.”

Miranda let an offended sigh escape. “Ice cream. Of course. Won’t that give you an even worse headache?”

“I can promise you, I’ll eat it very slowly. I will eat it with respect and possibly admiration.”

The CEO chuckled. “Of course you would.”

The girl’s voice was almost a whisper now. “And… can we have sprinkles?”

“Of course.”

“Yay!”

“You’re such a child,” Miranda said wistfully.

“Not a child. Not at all.” And the childlike tone was gone, and a firm adult stated, “And when, not if, when, there will be more kissing. More, more tasting. That’s the real promise.”

And Miranda, despite her certainty in the hopelessness of their position, said, “If, when… I promise.”

Satisfied, Andréa closed her eyes.

Miranda continued to quietly ransack, though the groaning building was masking most of the sounds she made. At some point, she realised that Andréa had somehow fallen asleep. She could only marvel at how the reporter could nap despite the perils, through the slow collapse of the building around them. She shuffled as quietly as she could in the cramped space, and accumulated more treasures, as of course, the girl was right. She found more drinks, and an ancient boombox, which she slid across the floor while the girl slept. She carefully washed out the now gluey bee mask, but still replaced it with some disgust. She watched Andréa sleep for what might have been minutes or hours, and wondered. Wondered at her strength and courage. Knowing that when the media would report on their deaths, despite all this girl had accomplished this day and what she was, Andy Sachs’ name would be in the small print. _There is no justice, ever,_ and she gazed at the girl with a tenderness that would have shocked many. At some point, there was a great roar and massive slippage seemed to threaten to crush them both, and Miranda found herself making a shield over the girl, though she had no idea of what sort of protection she was affording from tons of reinforced concrete collapsing onto them. Andréa only made what could be described as sweet cooing sounds that almost brought tears to her eyes as the dust fell and the ceiling shook. _What have I been thinking_? _She is far too good for the likes of me. We’re not even in a relationship of any kind, and I’ve already managed to trap her in what should only have been the tomb of Miranda Priestly._ Eventually, she lay back beside Andréa, fighting the foreign urge to cuddle.

Perhaps at some point, Miranda’s thought became too loud, and Andy groaned, opening her eyes to see a near tearful Miranda looking at her from inches away. “What’s wrong?”

Miranda gave a somewhat broken chuckle at that. “Do you want a list?”

“Nope, how long have I been asleep?

She glanced at her watch. “An hour. But you haven’t missed anything.”

Andy yawned and examined herself mentally. She felt stronger; it was time to think of getting out of the box. Andy could see the depression weighing on Miranda’s shoulders and there were things that needed doing first. It was time for a change-up pitch.

“What do you want to do, what’s the first thing you want, when and if we walk out of here?”

“If and when,” Miranda stopped to think. “We are moving to a building with no floors higher than the fire ladders can reach.”

Andréa laughed. “Wait. You’re evading. You know, you do that a lot for someone who demands the truth from everyone else.” She waited, and Miranda glared back before rolling on her back.

“The truth is, I found a radio in working order.” She pulled over the ancient cassette player/radio alongside “It’s battery operated and seems to be working. And I find that I am afraid to listen to the news. Not because I am afraid to discover how hopeless our situation is. But because I am afraid I will hear reports… reports that there are hundreds of people outside, looking for a curled up set of Prada clad legs sticking out from under this building.” Pause. “And that they will cheer.”

Andy very carefully took Miranda’s hand in hers. “And if there is even one person like that, when we walk out of here, they will choke on their own pettiness, and the people that care, and admire you will be the one’s cheering.”

“You…”

“I wanna hear the news. Maybe we’re not even in the top stories? This is New York. We could be old news.”

Miranda consulted her watch. “My God. It’s after midnight.”

“See, we’re still alive, seven hours later.”

“And, we missed the news on the hour.”

“Ah, we’ll still make talk radio.”

Miranda rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh god. Did I survive all this just to be forced to listen to New York Talk Radio?”

Andy chuckled and reached over to adjust the tuner. In a moment she struck a voice, she increased the volume of the tinny speakers.

**-You’re listening to WKNY because <We Know New York>**

**-Welcome back to the Barry Brox show,**

“Oh dear Lord, not him, turn it off, Andréa,” Miranda exclaimed.

**\- and we continue with the news that the only good thing not to come out of the terrorist attack on the Elias Clark building was my dear friend, Miranda Priestly <Ding Dong the Witch is dead>**

At this complete confirmation of everything she had assumed, Miranda went rigid. The inane song continued, until Andy asked, “Oh my God, what did you do to _him_?” Even in the darkness, she could feel the outrage caused by her remark. “Wait a minute, Miranda, I am not blaming the victim, I’m just asking a question about this guy.”

Possibly mollified, the reply was not as cool as she might have feared. “He had a well-respected blog for one of the networks. He reported on a story about drug use at the girls’ school and felt that naming some of the more famous attendees would make the story more newsworthy.”

“Oh, jeez, he used the girl’s names in a story? So why isn’t he working in Nome?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Andréa. If he was in Nome, who would know what his punishment was?”

**-Yes, it’s true. Apparently her own house really did fall on her. Let’s send out some prayers that our own Dorothy Gale, Andy Sachs, will have pulled off the red slippers and found her way home.**

“Miranda…”

“Well, my legacy seems intact and at least I know you’ll be remembered properly. Dorothy.”

“Miranda, this is a pathetic little man who’s taking his pathetic little revenge. You have to know that’s not what people think. Not what I think, or the girls or anyone who’s ever known you.”

“And how many people can you count on that list, Andréa? How many?”

“Miranda…”

**Ah, ladies and gentlemen, I have on the line the Wizard, of the Oz we call fashion. Give it up to the heir apparent, Nigel Kipling, Editor in Chief of Runway America.**

Nigel’s familiar tones sputtered through the small speaker.

**“Good morning, Barry. First time caller, but last time caller… for you.** There was another short pause. **I bet you think that this tasteless attack is going to go viral, don’t you? Restart your career, perhaps? But you made a big, huge miscalculation, Barry. New York is going to get very angry with you.”**

Another familiar voice broke in. **“You skeezy bastard. I spent all night trying to keep two crying girls from seeing any news coverage. But those de, girls are going to be trolling the net, desperately looking for news about the mother they love, that loved them,”** there was a break in Emily’s voice before she plowed on, **“and they might hear your show. You are dead. You are so dead and…”**

**“Sorry Barry. Just one of the many, many people you’ve offended, but that’s not why you’re going off air soon, though forgetting that a woman, a woman you’d need to be wearing stilts just to lick her boots, who has two young children waiting for any news, should be reason enough to can you. But guess what? When you’re working in Poughkeepsie at the local McDonalds, I want you to remember, Miranda Priestly didn’t do this to you, you did it to yourself. Because while you’ve been defaming a great woman, the police are about to announce that Andréa Sachs, who is, was, one of the best people it has been my privilege to know, was not capable of clearing the Elias Clark building. She needed help. The police are going to be announcing that Miranda Priestly and Andréa Sachs, both of them, working together, stayed behind to ensure that Elias Clarke was evacuated, and saved the lives of over three thousand people. So not because she was powerful, with friends and admirers around the world, but because she went out as a hero, the woman you spent your last hours on air defaming, is going to take you down. Have a good life, Barry.**

**-You’re listening to WKNY because <We Know New York>**

**-WKNY is now switching to our national broadcaster for the remainder of the evening.-**

Several miles away in a townhouse, two coworkers stared at each other.

“Bastard,” Emily sniffled.

“Yes, you said that,” Nigel sighed, pulling her into a hug.

On the television screen in front of them, a tower of rubble still stood, with helicopters darting about it like bees around a battered hive. The floors that they had last seen their friend and employer, gone, scattered in sections on the ground where thousands stood penned back while emergency beacons flashed their candlelit vigil.

“Bloody hell. The last time she saw me I was panicking. And worse than that, useless.”

Nigel held the sobbing woman tighter. “And then you did exactly what she would have wanted. You went to look after her babies. Found alternate presses for the magazine and helped me get locations to set up office space so the magazines will still get out. Arranged for Andréa’s family to fly here. You pushed through and she’d be proud of you.”

This only made the sobbing increase. There was a quiet period, until Nigel said, “I hope they were together.”

“What are you saying?” Emily sputtered.

“What you and I both know.”

Emily shrugged, then raised her glass to the ceiling with a shrug. “Well, maybe. That bloody fat COW!” There was another shuddering sob. “Bless her.”


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Disclaimers in chapter 1

Warning: Anyone not interested in the Golden Age of Children’s Literature can miss this chapter…

The regular performance of the Elias-Clark building seemed to be on hiatus for a moment. The radio had been turned low, playing forgettable classics through its tinny speakers. Without a word, Miranda had loosened her face mask, and Andy had followed suit. The mention of Miranda’s girls’ tears had dampened any amusement either survivor might have had over the disposition of Barry Brox and the CEO had accepted the surprising comfort of a hand clasping hers. Andy had accepted with dazed surprise that she had once again survived breaking The Rule of never ever touching Miranda.

Both were exhausted, and the space they were trapped in seemed to be growing smaller. On the plus side, Andy’s headache seemed to be diminishing and there wasn’t anything else to do but enjoy the strangely intimate consolation of each other. A confirmation that Miranda felt similarly was that each time Andy had attempted to rise, there had been a quick tugging that had returned her to a prone position beside the older woman. But it wasn’t in Andy’s nature to sit still or quietly, and she reached over to turn on the cell phone’s light, and try to lighten the melancholy as well. She ventured, “What were we talking about before? About whether a few random petty people might be drowned out by your supporters or not?”

Miranda sighed. “May I assume by that smug grin, you think you’ve proven something. That it seems I have two people that would care.”

Andrea raised her hand.

“Fine. Three people. One trapped with me and unable to avoid my wrath, and two employees.”

“And the girls,” she said, before attempting to bite her own tongue.

“I would rather not think about them at the moment.”

“Your list of names you threatened Irv with?”

“More people who are terrified of me,” she grumbled.

“Miranda, not everyone supports you because they're scared of you.” There was a raised eyebrow. “Well, at least not _entirely_ because of that.”

Miranda gave a tired chuckle. “I’m sure the city papers can look forward to a eulogy praising my Mother Teresa-like qualities.”

Andy choked back a laugh. “I’ve heard that she could be a hard bitch when things needed to get done.” _Was it exhaustion that was making this conversation seem amusing, or were they both really that funny?_ “But I do not see you as the Wicked Witch of the East or West.”

“Maybe I have an origin story. Have you seen Wicked?”

Andrea snorted. “On the salary you paid me? I wish.”

“Then, since your escape from incarceration.”

“When I worked for you I had someone to pay half the rent.”

“True. I am sorry. I gathered that your breakup was partly due to my demands.”

Andy shook her head, which hurt, so she decided not to do that anymore. “No, they were due to my priorities in working to your demands. That’s all on me and Nate, not you.”

“Thank you. It is gratifying to know that _all_ of the ruins I’m looking back at now were not caused by me.”

“Oh, please. Pity is the last emotion I expected from you.”

“Last emotion? Perhaps. Look around, Andrea. We finally have the opportunity to sit, quietly, holding hands with each other. I like this, I wish it could last…for an hour more. Allow me a moment of self-pity.”

“Depression is not going to help either of us. We are going to get out of here.”

“Perhaps Dorothy isn’t your appropriate branding, perhaps it should be Pollyanna.”

Finding some energy to be insulted, Andrea said, “I like Dorothy, I like the Oz books.”

“Perhaps you should have a little dog, too.”

“I can’t really see carrying Patricia under my arm.”

“Perhaps you could try a chicken.”

“Billina?”

“I believe that was her name.”

Andy carefully raised her head. “You know the name of Dorothy Gale’s chicken?”

“There was a film…”

“No no no. You read the books as a child, didn’t you?”

“You sound shocked. I think the concept you might have read them would be more amazing. I am older.”

Andy blew a soft raspberry, which still hurt. “You cannot play the age card here. The Wizard of Oz was published in 1900.”

“Yes, and Ozma of Oz, where Billina was introduced, was published in 1907.”

Andy slowly turned to look at Miranda with newfound awe. “You have first editions, don’t you?”

Miranda lay her head against her arm. “All of the time you’ve spent with me, and this you find impressive?”

“I loved the originals, do you really…?”

“Not the Wizard. Copies go for over $50,000 and I certainly wouldn’t want the girls to worry about damaging it. They were meant to be read, not in a glass case.”

Andy nodded. “And the Denslow illustrations were never right in my mind.”

“Absolutely,” Miranda agreed. “Neill will always be the illustrator who captured the vision. I also bought a few of his original drawings.”

“Oh my God! Do you think I could…”

“Fondle my etchings? Really, Andrea. If I had known what truly attracted you…”

“You would have done what?”

“Might we table that for your imaginary when?”

Andy shrugged, but with an enticing smile. “I’m not sure which conversational thread to follow.”

“For the moment, stick to the one less likely to cause a hemorrhage.”

After a moment of hesitation, and a series of throbs right over her eye, she settled with, “tease.”

“If and when, my darling. If and when.”

“Fine. I know the girls had an extensive collection of books, but first editions?”

“I bought them standard editions, until I knew which books they loved, and invested. Something they can have forever, that they shared… they shared with their mother.”

Realising the subject was moving too close to the girls and possibly tears, Andrea quickly asked, “Have you any other first editions?”

“Beatrix Potter, though they never were my favourites.”

“Me too. I preferred Thornton Burgess.”

“Yes, the knowledge of real animals within the cartoon.”

“I don’t suppose you ever went to the Lake District?”

“For Beatrix?”

Andy sighed in disappointment. “No, there was another series. I was hoping that perhaps we shared that as well… It was based on these British children, they went on summer vacations in the Lakes, and met some other children, and in their imagination…”

Miranda interrupted, “I have read Swallows and Amazons.”

“Yes!” Andrea almost jumped up in her enthusiasm but remembered the whole _head exploding_ thing in time. “They were so much about imagination crossed with adventure and dreams and I, well, you know how they have questionnaires about which House in Harry Potter you’d be?”

“Obviously Slytherin, not to bring up any bad memories.” There was a sly pause before she added, “Miss Hufflepuff.”

Andrea tried to glare, but stuck out her tongue instead, which seemed easier. And got a better reaction. Was it her imagination that although Miranda’s eyes seemed shocked, they were also focused on her tongue just a little warmly? _Probably._

Andy hesitated. “You were Nancy Blackett, weren’t you?”

Miranda laughed, a lovely rich freeing laugh. “You bet your life I was. ”

“Nancy Blackett. Captain of the Amazon Pirates, I can really see you there.”

“Who else would I be? I mean, some faux mother figure? Roger? One might as well be the ship’s monkey. Any girl worth her salt wanted to be the pirate queen.” Something warned her that she had lost Andy in her fervor, when she remembered another character. “Ah, of course.”

“There was another role model!”

Miranda began her worst evil chuckle. “Of course. The dreamer, the detective.”

Andy retorted, “She is THE major character!”

“But such an unfortunately named character.”

“Don’t dis her name, Miranda.”

“Especially for a writer to be…”

“I mean it, Miranda!”

“How could I make fun of your Avatar? Just because she was called…”

“Fine! Yes, I was Titty. Wanna start a fight about it?”

“No! After all, though Arthur Ransome clearly made himself Captain Flint, it is obvious in the book that he loved Titty.”

Andy groaned. “Nancy Blackett lost all the main competitions!”

“I’m sure you loved Titty as well,” she chortled.

“Fine. Times and names have changed. But there is still the gold standard, for all independent smart girls, we haven’t mentioned.”

“I hope you are not referring to Little Women.”

“Nope, I’m thinking of someone, that a mother with say, red headed girls, who was a red head in her youth, might have loved?”

“Ah. Yes. Anne.”

“Anne, with an ‘e’.”

“I’ll admit, many of the books after Green Gables were a bit less…well, I always wished I could have been Lucy Maud’s editor. It may have started me on my path.”

She looked about their space, or lack of, again. “I suppose I should blame all this on Lucy Maud Montgomery.”

“Nope. You’re missing the point here, Miranda.”

“What’s that?”

Andy said, “Twenty five years apart, but we shared a childhood.”

Miranda was left silent after that comment, but Andy was gratified that she grasped the hand in hers just a little more tightly.

There was a further moment of silence, until the CEO said, “So, I will agree, I am not the Witch. Though if these fools knew anything, I’m much more likely to be Mombi. Changing boys into girls.”

“Or have a room with detachable heads,” Andy added cheekily.

Miranda began to chuckle at that, when there was another sliding, scraping sound, and again they held hands until it ended with a muffled crash that echoed through the flooring.

Once the successive explosions had settled, and they could see that they were again not dead, they tightened their filter masks until the dust settled again. Andy commented, “That was a big one. And yet here we still are.”

Miranda gave a small breath of release. “And yet, I am still wearing your bee costume remnants. We could be in Hell.”

“Don’t baby me, Miranda. Tell me what you really think.”

She curled away to look at Andrea. “The truth? Despite my lovely scarf, which truly does not go with that horrific excuse for a body covering, excepting over a cliff to be burned, yes, despite that thing and the wounds and traces of blood that make me cringe and ache as if they were mine, despite that horrible picture you present,”

Andy tried not to look too expectant throughout this unexpected monologue, “Aaaaand, finally a compliment?”

“Despite that saucy mouth and the unspeakable thing covering them, truthfully, I find I want to kiss those lips so very thoroughly that I am resting as far away as is possible.”

Andréa’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “Ahhhh… You can’t just… ahhh…”

“Lost your words, again?” Miranda prompted with an evil smile. “Perhaps I was mistaken, I thought that was something you might…”

“Enjoy? Love? Need desperately?” Andy would have continued as she lifted her head gingerly, but stopped. “Did you hear that?”

“What, the fluttering of my heart?”

“Almost. That throbbing sound.”

Concerned, Miranda began slowly, “Sometimes the sound of blood pounding near your inner ear sounds like…”

Andy cut in. “No, I’ve had ear infections, no, this is like those big military helicopters. I can hear outside. That last slide must have opened up some space!”

Miranda shook her head. “I can't hear anything.”

“It must be right by my head.” She rapped the wall sections nearest her ears. “This is just plaster board, we might be able to break through.”

“I swear, if you injure your head once more, I will have you restrained.”

“Promises, promises. If you’re so tough, you get over here and try to break through this.”

Andréa rolled out of way, but not before finding and pushing a nearby metal stool towards her ex-boss. “Pretend you’re golfing,” she suggested, “Against Irv.”

Rolling her eyes, and with little hope of success, she swung the stool at the indicated spot. It dented the plaster and little else.

“You said you would try, Miranda. That wasn’t trying. And Irv is smirking.”

Another blow, with much more force was made, and this time a section dropped inwards.

“I can feel a draft, do it again!”

Gritting her teeth, she struck once more, and a hole about two feet wide could be seen. Dust drifted through, and with enthusiasm, she swung again slightly higher, and was rewarded with a sharp clanging sound that reverberated right through the chair and into her shoulder.

“Okay, maybe that’s all we’ve got. But it might be enough.” Before she could demand that the reporter be careful, Andy was already moving into the gap and pushing her head through.

“I can see a light, I can see outside, Miranda, I can see out! We can signal someone, we’re going to get out!”

There was a long pause and the girl’s legs stilled.

“Miranda.”

“Yes.”

“I’m stuck.”

“Yes you are.”

“When…”

“If.”

“When and if we get out, you will not tell Emily.”

Miranda reached down, making sure to push with only her uninjured leg. The girl managed to wriggle a few inches further. “You’re not fat. It’s that damned bee obscenity. Your figure is just right, never let me or anyone ever tell you differently again.”

“I can’t hear you. Can you hand me the telephone, maybe I can get a signal or flash a light to alert a helicopter.”

“Andrea?” she called. “How are you going to move your arms? You’ll have to get your arms free first.”

There was another pause as the younger woman considered her position. “Okay, I think I need to free my arms first.”

“Let me haul you back and we’ll make the hole larger.”

“Wait, if I just break through a bit…” There was a cracking sound, and Miranda had to fight herself not to draw the girl out against her will, when the flailing legs found some purchase, and the reporter was through and on the other side.

That brought Miranda to the aperture, a short delay as she waited for the girl to get out of the way before she began crawling through. Sure enough, even without her cell light, she could see shadows and reflections between the slabs of ceiling; lighting that blinked - the lights, the life of the city outside. As soon as Miranda was clear, Andrea was at the aperture, returning to their tomb. Her head bandage, nearly catching on the edges. “Stop exerting yourself!” Miranda shouted and cursed fluently under her breath until the younger woman’s head and shoulders reappeared, throwing their trove of treasures ahead of her. She pulled Andréa through by her hands, amused that as her feet came last, they were hooked around the two garment bags.

“Walking out of here, like I told you!” she cried.

The building responded to her optimism, by sending a series of slabs down around them, shaking and smashing through the floors ahead, taking sections with them. They held each other in a closed-eye crouch, until it stopped once more. When the dust settled, they were alive, but any exit was gone.

Miranda raised her dusted head, assessed their position once more, and stated firmly, “I know it is entirely against your nature, but stop saying we will get out of here. I can’t take having my hopes raised like this. It’s,” her voice broke, “Not fair.”

Without releasing the older woman from their protective hug, Andy said softly, “Miranda. We’re out of the box. There are stairwells right beside the elevators. Right over there.”

Andy waved the cell phone at the general space she knew the stairway door should be. “Or it should be. Behind that… wall.”

The doorway was surrounded by litter, and huge section of wall, weighing at least a few tons, was pushed nearly against it.

Miranda glared at the area. “Right there.” she whispered sourly. “Let’s not forget the garment bags.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The light from the phone began to flicker, so Andy pulled out her own cell and approached the barricaded door. She pulled away a section of ceiling, coughing as the dust raised a cloud and flashed the light behind. “It’s only partly blocked.”

“And the glass is half full?”

“Miranda…” She stopped to think. _What can I say that won’t piss her off even more?_ But it had to be the truth. That was something Miranda always respected even when she hated it.

“Miranda, all we need to do is open the door enough to squeeze through, and I can see a gap almost big enough. We can do that. What I cannot do is fight this building and you at the same time.”

Even without light to see, Andy could feel Miranda’s wall going up.

“I really am aware of how bad this is, but we are still alive against the odds and we still have our brains and we are both strong women. I will not give up and I need you to try.” And hesitantly she added, “For us.”

“So you want me to make a blind commitment hoping for the best?” Miranda laughed mirthlessly. “Andréa, I can’t, I don't do that.”

Andy laid the phone on the ground, and in the shadowed light tenderly cupped Miranda’s chin to turn her face back towards her. “You do. You have. Look. When you started at Runway it was a huge risk, it was about to be shut down and the board had nothing to lose by putting you in charge, right?”

“How is that the same?”

“You had faith. Faith in yourself that you had the skills, the patience and you knew that the potential, what Runway could become, was worth whatever efforts it took. You knew what you could do, if you were committed to it.” Andréa looked deeply into the reddened eyes and said softly, “I think what we might have is worth that same commitment. I think even the smallest chance of that, is worth fighting for, worth anything, to see your girls again. I’m willing to put my faith in our skills because the potential is worth all of that and more. So don’t tell me you can’t commit. Your only out is if you honestly can say that you don’t think it would be worth the commitment.”

The exhaustion and anger Miranda was feeling were visible in her eyes, but there was a determination that had been missing and was now returning. Andréa dropped her arm to take Miranda’s hand in hers.

“I have faith that if you commit to this, if we are both in this with all our skills, then it will happen.”

“You’re not referring to just escaping this death trap, are you?” But it was said with a smile, and Andy pulled the older woman into a firm hug.

“I think we know who the subtle one is in this relationship.”

To Andy’s surprise and relief, the woman did not seem upset with the use of the word relationship. Instead she relaxed into the hug, murmuring, “I will trust that you will never expect me to begin singing Zipadee Doodah.”

“Never.”

“And I trust you aren’t prying that door open in your condition.”

“And you aren’t using that foot to brace yourself,” Andy retorted.

Miranda picked up the phone. “So, Archimedes, we need…”

“A lever. And we don’t need to open it all the way, just enough to squeeze through.”

“Into what?”

“One way to find out, Miss Sunshine.”

There were enough shattered structural steel pieces scattered around that they could hardly move without tripping over one. Selecting something of the right size, the two women managed to pull a section of the wall away from the door, praying that it didn’t cause the rest of the ceiling to collapse.

Pulling the door open over the portions of concrete that littered the floor required some clearing of the area, but within a few minutes they had enough space to fit through.

Miranda remained firm in her lack of optimism, but Andy was effervescent. “That’s good! More than enough space… and I can see light?”

Miranda frowned. “There can’t be windows in the inner stairwells.”

Andy pushed her head through the space and called back, “No, more emergency lighting on batteries. I doubt they were meant to last this long, so they’ll probably burn out soon.”

“The epitaph for everything in this building.”

Andy snorted, but squeezed through the doorway, putting out her hand back through, waiting for the garment bags. They were passed over and Miranda followed her. The emergency light was a flickering shade of orange. They could see the banisters, but the stairs were completely covered with rubble. There was also just enough light for Andy to finally notice the wreck that had been Miranda’s gown. Horrified, she said, “Miranda, I've gotten blood all over your De La Renta!”

The Queen of Fashion didn’t even glance downward. “It’s still a damn sight better looking than that bloody bee costume.”

A quick glance down through the gap in the stair’s spiral showed the damage continued for several floors at least. Both women looked down to Miranda’s injured foot. She’d never make it down the first flight, much less thirty stories.

“This is probably the worst of it, once we get to the lower levels, there’s possibly less damage,” Andy tried.

Miranda’s lips pursed, and she stated calmly, “Once again, I applaud your optimism, but I believe we have come to a parting of the ways.”

Andy froze. “Don’t even joke about that. I only got this far because of you, I’m not leaving you here after all… after all, whatever this has been.”

“A really terrible second date?” Miranda posed.

“Second date?” Andy managed to blurt over her laughter. “Where was I during our first?”

Miranda attempted to appear insulted. “We both were dressed up for the gala. There was dinner and a good night kiss. What parameters would you judge it by?”

“By that definition, this is our third date.” Andy worked her way over the rubble to the stair rails. “Look at the time. It was yesterday that we got dressed up, there were more kisses, the earth moved…”

Miranda harrumphed. “Even you cannot call whatever that thing is, dressed up.”

“You’re just worried about what my expectations might be at the end of the third date.” Andy shot her a quick wink. She heard Miranda release a graceful chuckle. She carefully stepped over more of the crumbled stone and pulled on the heavy, wide stair rails. “These are strong enough to take our weight, we’ll slide down,” she announced.

At Miranda’s wide-eyed disbelief, she smirked, “It’ll be fun.”

Miranda raised her hand to point at the studs that spotted the top of the rails all the way along. “Ripping myself a new one is something I preferred to do unto others.”

"We just need something soft to slide on. Fortunately we still have the magical all purpose bee suit that you keep defaming."

The nail scissors made another appearance and Andy surveyed her fur-covered legs before inserting the blade carefully, just above her thighs.

Miranda sparked, "And another piece of skin is revealed. This is becoming far too similar to too many action films."

Andy smiled and continued cutting. "Yes, but if I end up half naked, remember, at least I'll be in designer underwear."

The material became caught in the scissors, and in frustration, she began to tear along the seams.

"What part of DO NOT strain yourself did I not make clear?"

"It's fine. Can you see how cheap the stitching is?"

Miranda's throat went dry as the long legs were slowly revealed. "Yes, I can see,” she murmured. Then took a deep breath. “Cheap, horrible...” Even in the flickering light, the legs seemed to go on and on…. “Oh. my..."

"It can't be _that_ offensive to you, really, " Andy looked over to see the almost glazed eyes of the CEO, and then looked down to what the other woman’s eyes were locked onto. "Oh.” A self-satisfied grin appeared. “Miranda...?"

There was a not so subtle attempt on Miranda's part to recover. "Hmmm. Yes. I have decided that if, and when, you were right to bring along the couture," she said, indicating the garment bags.

"Really?"

"Yes,” she said definitely. “No one gets to see those thighs. Not tonight. Possibly ever again."

"Except you?"

"Is that a question?”

“Rather possessive,” Andy asked with a smirk.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“I’m not the one who has crowds of adoring fans everywhere they go.” She began to carefully fold the sections of the bee costume, leaving the thicker seams on the bottom.

“Then you haven’t realised in this mythical if and when of yours where we survive, you’ll be a hero. Your job is going to be harder when the people you interview aren’t half as well known as you will be.”

“Then I’ll have some protection for the accusations that I’m a gold-digger for being with you.”

“And the accusations that you’re out of your mind to be with me?”

“I’m hoping your opinion will change eventually.”

“Saucy.”

“Saucy and rather possessive, we’re a match.” She held out one of the pads she had folded to Miranda. “Your ride awaits, Madame.”

Laying her own pad by a post, she helped Miranda over the piles of stone, noting that despite the pain she must have been feeling to raise her leg over the railing, not a sound escaped those lips. She found she couldn’t resist the objects of her contemplation, and before steadying the CEO, gave her a short and definitely unsatisfying peck on the lips.

“I believe I was withholding my favours until we were outside and safe?” Miranda objected.

“I never agreed to anything like that. And anyway, how do I know that attitude won’t be a continuing aspect of our future when and if relationship?”

“If and when, you and I are alone, I am far more likely to slit my own throat than withhold…” and there was a very long pause, at least to Andy’s ears there was, before a sibilant whisper continued, “anything from you.”

Andy swallowed. “That’s incentive. Though I might worry that you are manipulating me openly to use my big brains just to get out of here.”

“More interested in the big heart, dearest. For some time to come.” With Miranda safely astride the rail, Andy grabbed the garment bags, and carefully rolled them to place in her lap. Then she took her own pad and mounted in front. Miranda eyed the posterior that would act as her brake. “Though at the moment, your bi… perfectly, sculptured posterior is quite useful.”

With Andy using her leg to balance, they made it to the first turn, and carefully eased about it and continued. The stenciled sign for the 29th Floor was soon in front. Andy pointed to the door and asked, “These fire doors are pretty well unbreakable, right? No point in checking if there’s access to windows or more supplies to steal?”

“None whatsoever, access is only one way out without keys.” Miranda agreed. “For once, we’re fortunate, in that the stairwells empty directly onto the 20th floor lobby.”

As they continued riding the rails, Miranda noticed that Andy was humming the theme for the Wicked Witch. “Must you?”

“It’s stuck in my head!”

“Never mind me. Probably half the building has it for my ring tone.”

“Only half?”

It took over almost thirty minutes before they had reached the 25th floor level, and Andy realized two things: One, they hadn’t heard any major crashes for some time, though the creaking and groaning had continued, and Two, Miranda was having difficulty keeping her legs raised and was clearly in pain.

“I’ve got a bit of a headache, maybe we could take a few minutes break?”

For a moment, Miranda’s eyes widened in worry for her partner, but then they narrowed as she detected the white lie. “By all means, but only a short one,” With a tincture of sarcasm, she added, “Unless you feel it’s too painful.”

Andréa turned and placed her feet under Miranda’s for her to rest on. There was an uncomfortable silence, until she ventured into a subject that had been on her mind for a while.

“Nigel might have mentioned that the girls… might… not hate me? As a person? A person who might want to be…”

Miranda rolled her eyes and cut into the rambling. “The girls are highly supportive.”

There was such delight on her face that Miranda was tempted to smile, but instead said, “I'd show you the messages the girls have left, actually encouraging us to be more of a couple.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “That would be on the phone you claimed you didn't have?”

Miranda pretended to think for a moment. “It's in a drawer in the office.”

The eyebrow rose further. “Uh huh. You should have grabbed it when you were doing the check.”

“It was an evacuation, Andréa. You are supposed to bring only what is most important. At the time, that was you.”

“Oh! I am honoured, Madame. No one would believe Miranda Priestly would say such lovely, romantic and cheesy things.”

“As long as you appreciate the honour.”

Andréa let the moment linger for a second before stating, “You forgot the phone because there wasn't an assistant to hand it to you, right?”

Miranda allowed a grin. “Of course.”

“Okay, Priestly, just for that, when and if I am asked about how I was injured, I’ll tell them…the truth.”

“Why does that sound so threatening?”

“I’ll tell them,” and her voice became faint and her face softened to look quite confused. “I was alone, all alone in an elevator with my former boss, Miranda Priestly? No one else around, then…” Her voice sunk to whisper, “it got really dark and I don’t know what happened but, when I woke up my head was bashed like this! It’s all very hazy, but I do remember at one point, she tried to drag me down an elevator shaft!” Andy stopped her recitation and pursed her full lips to see Miranda’s reaction.

Whose lips were far more professionally pursed. “No doubt you risked landing on top of a large pile of my previous employees at the bottom of the shaft.”

Andrea tried to keep a straight face. “Ah! So this was all a plan to get rid of the evidence.”

With a sigh born of martyrdom, Miranda agreed. “Only so many elevator shafts, but so many incompetents.”

Andy mock toasted, “To fresh starts and larger, new elevator shafts!”

After a nod of agreement, Andy turned about, waited for Miranda to brace herself, and they continued their slow descent. They passed the 21st floor with Andy cheering and Miranda giving a muted huzzah, both in their way, acknowledging they had passed the halfway mark.

They stumbled into the 20th floor open plan lobby, legs aching from the exertion. It was a shambles and the fallen ceiling still enclosed them, blocking access to any windows. Their eyes had become used to the emergency lighting of the stairs and all seemed pitch black, so the phone was brought out again to search through what was left of the crushed reception desks. Only one drawer was intact and locked but the small bolt was no match to the brute force of Miranda fiercely wielding a piece of concrete. Another cell phone was captured, and found to be fully charged. There was still no signal; so another miracle of the 21st century was used as a torch. While Miranda rested, Andréa found the inner stair doors, unblocked, and leading to another railed stairwell. There was less rubble, but despite her stoic silence, Miranda’s foot was obviously swollen and it was silently agreed they would continue to ride their way down.

Following their tradition, they stopped at the 15th Floor, with both women trying to ignore the increasing optimism that they were going to make it. But the stress of holding Miranda in position, and the long day and night finally caught up to Andréa. She closed her eyes, and with Miranda slowly stroking her hair with one hand and holding the other, despite the creaking noises, the impending death surrounding them, she fell asleep. It took another slab avalanche that skidded above them to wake her, and she startled, eyes bright in the dim light.

“How long?”

“Just fifteen minutes, you, we both needed it. Though I am amazed that you could sleep through this.”

Andréa blushed. “I just focused on your hand, and well, everything else was just the circumstances that allowed me to be here… holding your hand.”

Miranda’s eyes softened, but typically, not her words. “And you said I was cheesy.”

Though as Andy turned to continue their slide, she heard the Miranda whisper, “You lovely, foolish, darling.”

Andy tossed back, “Heard that!”

From behind came a confident reply, “ I am surprisingly fine with that.”

Their banter continued; Andy enjoying the relaxed Miranda she had seldom seen at Runway, knowing it was good therapy for both of them. Their spirits were rising, despite Miranda’s best attempts at dampening them, as they approached the three quarter mark. There was more damage suddenly, much more rubble, and even the banisters were angled, making it a difficult slide. They were arguing over whether they could chance another short rest on the tenth level but as they turned the corner rail to reach it, they were both shocked to see a large, and seemingly impenetrable barrier of a massive fire door blocking the way downwards.

Andy looked at Miranda as she dismounted, but the fashion maven was suddenly poker faced.

The door was firmly and irrevocably locked.

“Andréa. I’m afraid…” And she stopped, to choke out a bitter laugh. “Despite what Alanis might have thought, this is the final irony. Unfortunately, too final for you.”

“It’s just a door, Miranda. Just another problem.”

“It’s a full security door, my darling. And I only wish I had an apology for this, but I locked this door.”

Andy swallowed at the misery in her former boss’ voice. “I don’t think you did.”

Miranda pointed upwards. “The floor above, behind another locked door? That’s the tenth floor shipping. The basement and ground floor loading docks were unavailable, so we took the lowest floors we could.”

“I know all that, I was sent down to S and R more times than I want to remember.”

“Then you know, we have materials, of course couture, passing through, being stored, sometimes worth millions, and there were discrepancies in the invoices this week. So I asked security to investigate.”

Andy slumped to the floor slowly.

Miranda continued in the same flat, toneless voice. “They clearly took this as a recommendation to seal off the floor. I doubt if either of us is capable of climbing ten flights even if there were time or another exit, and all the stairwells on the way are locked from this side.”

Andy shook her head. “But it’s a fire escape. You can’t lock fire escapes. How many people…”

“Yes, Andréa, I am well aware of the wonderful history of industrial disasters created by owners who were attempting to reduce theft or because they simply didn’t care about their workers. The Triangle Shirtwaist fire killed over 150 workers, most of them women.”

Though the door represented almost certain death, Andy found herself more interested in assuaging her partner’s guilt. And she remembered something. “Miranda, you do remember RAR? Report, Action, Response.”

“I instituted it, as you well know.”

“You ordered this increase in security, when?”

“I told you, Wednesday, after I received the report.”

“And if security stupidly ordered this, there’d be a memo detailing that on your desk now for your response to their action, right?”

Illumination occurred. “And if we hadn’t been rushing about for the party, once I saw what they’d done…”

“You’d be in your happy place, firing incompetents. This is not a crime against the workers, it’s just our bad timing.” Miranda’s face was still, pondering. “Bad luck, not your fault. Really.”

“Lovely of you to say so, but I think the media would disagree. Face it, Andréa, this is so very appropriate, that the Queen of Fashion should be found behind the locked security door like so many poor desperate women, so very appropriate except that you, my dear, are trapped with me.”


	11. Chapter 11

Miranda’s statement of guilt still hung over them both, regardless of Andréa’s attempts to dispel it. Both women continued to stare at the door that seemed to have ended all of their hopes.

Finally, Andréa stood up and put her hand out to the CEO. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“I’m not standing in front of a steel reinforced door as if it held any answers. We have to go back up.”

“You know how much I love to repeat myself. But to where?”

“Any where but here. And I will repeat myself. Come on.”

Miranda’s ankle and foot were throbbing. Riding down had been painful enough, but as much as she detested weakness, she was not prepared or capable of moving any distance up flights of stairs. But she could understand the girl’s need to do something to shatter the melancholy and as one last gift, it was worth the pain. She took the proffered hand, and arm and arm, they picked their way through the rubble up the first flight, stopping at the landing to rest. Under the emergency lighting, she examined her companion. There was a grim set to her face, the lovely eyes were darkened, and the scarf bandage had slipped. Almost as upsetting, was the fresh rivulet of blood running from the scarf down to her eyes. To her poignant amusement, Andréa was still lugging the garment bags in her free hand, and she reached inside for one of the bottles of water.

“Your head must be pounding,” she told her. “Sit. Let me fix your bandage.”

Silently, the reporter hooked the bags over the rail and slumped down.

They hadn’t needed the filter masks for some time, and the back knotted portion of Miranda’s was relatively clean, so she wet it and carefully cleaned her partner’s face. The wound seemed uninfected; there was redness, nothing darker, but the bruising had spread. Most of it, she was satisfied to note, was hidden by the mane of hair that she unconsciously found herself stroking.

Andréa tried to ignore the sting as the wound was cleansed and focussed instead on their surroundings. She looked about the staircase, thinking how much had changed since she had been crouched on a stairwell just like this one, now obliterated, the smashed walls coated in blood. “I keep thinking about that boy, what sent him here.”

“I told you, you can’t save everyone.”

“I know, I know that, but… at the end of the article I sent in, just before everything went boom, … I closed it with a verse from the Koran. They probably will edit it out, but, it was… God shows unto all that seek His goodly acceptance the paths leading to peace and, by His grace, brings them out of the depths of darkness.”

“Oh, Andréa”

The building shifted once more and they both tensed until the shuddering stopped. “Do you know what terrorist theory is?”

In their time working together and even afterwards, Miranda would occasionally initiate a surprise conversational thread that seemed designed to challenge Andréa. It could be art, history, the latest application of some technology. Andréa had always given as good as she’d gotten, determined to show Miranda she was capable of arguing on an almost even level, despite the decades of experience the older woman had on her. Strangely, if the conversations were a challenge to Andréa, they were somehow comforting to Miranda. So the question out of the seeming blue did not ruffle her.

“Yes, we covered it in a Poli Sci class. I remember not being sure what shocked me more. That there was a tactical point to all that death and destruction, or that it worked so often. I get so furious every time I hear some politician going on after an attack with the explanation ‘they hate our way of life.’ When I know they must at least have been briefed on terrorist theory.”

“So what was it you learned?” The older woman asked.

“That the point is not the bombs or the people killed, but how the establishment, the government responds. If they respond with full authoritarianism, they will abuse the rights and lives of people, radicalising more followers to join the cause of the terrorists.”

Miranda nodded. “I wonder if some people just stumble onto it. Like Manson. He thought disguising his murders as blacks killing whites would provoke a race war where he’d end up on top.”

Andréa thought for a moment, for an appropriate example. “Did a certain group of freedom fighters need to know the theory when they tossed the tea into Boston Square? But it angered the British enough to make responses that radicalised tens of thousands to rebel.”

Miranda contributed, “In Quebec they had planted bombs for a generation with little reaction. Then they killed the Deputy Prime Minister and the Canadian government sent in the army, suspended civil rights and locked up hundreds without due process. Six years later many of those arrested were being elected in a separatist government.”

Andréa nodded. “Ireland, bombs killing Mountbatten, nearly killing Thatcher, brought in more army and six years later they are signing the Good Friday Accord in terms no previous government would have agreed to. It does work.”

Miranda sighed. “And of course, the most successful attack of all. 911. Bin Laden or whoever was in charge of that probably couldn’t have believed their luck. Talk about getting a reaction? The coalition invaded Iraq for no reason associated with 911. And radicalised millions of Muslims. How many attacks would never have occurred if we had followed the rule of law?”

“But that’s the theory. The greater the shock value, the more likely the overreactions. But now it has changed. Every attack now, has us fearing our neighbours, immigrants. Meaning they will never integrate, never feel at home. And that separateness is creating home grown terrorists, extending the cycle. Hatred and fear leading to fear and hatred.”

Miranda sniffed. “Worse, the government is taking advantage of the history ignorant Americans, who know nothing about the crusades or basic geography, that many Muslims see the invasions as the first strike to justify reprisals.”

Miranda knew that Andréa was seeing that boy again, and this was confirmed when she said, “They are lying to these kids. All sides.”

“Like your parents did. About their happy home.”

That startled Andréa. “What, no! Okay, maybe yes, I am a bit sensitive about lying to children because of that, but it’s hardly a bad thing for me to feel that way.” She cocked her head to consider. “My parents fake happiness hasn't killed anyone yet. These kids…” And then she heaved a sigh and deflated.

Miranda asked quietly, “What do you want to change, if you could?”

The words came resolutely. “I don't want one single more Muslim kid to be harassed at school because of this.” She waved her hand at the broken walls. “Not one more kid having to see his parents cursed in the streets… because I died. I don't want more bigotry, any more alienation or hate in this world in my name.”

The CEO nodded, and said as firmly as she could, “Then the best way to do that, is to get out of here.”

Andréa didn’t move.

“You said, come on.” Miranda looked at Andréa, hating that despair was stealing her strength and tried to keep the brokenness out of her voice. “Andréa…” she began.

“Thank you, Miranda.”

They looked into each other for a short moment, and Miranda nodded as they stood and began to slowly ascend again. As they’d noted on their way down, there had been more serious damage to the walls at this level, and they had to pick their way up the stairs around and under structural supports and broken original decorative mouldings which had been hidden under the plain refurbishments. The door into the 10th floor had been crumpled near the ceiling and pushed out a few inches, and the doorframe had collapsed into a pile of rubble. To Miranda’s eyes, it was still an impenetrable barrier, but Andréa dropped her hand and began climbing up the pile of cracked to peer through the gap at the top.

Miranda held back her worry that the younger woman was straining herself and called up, “I realise that neither of us is a six, but even Twiggy would not fit through that space.”

“We don’t have to, we just need to drop something down and hit the whatever you call it, the bar, make it release the catch and open the door.” It was on her lips to ask what difference it would make, but the return of enthusiasm on the other woman’s face had her quickly on her knees in more ways than one. She selected a few sections of moulding that seemed thin and heavy enough and passed them up to Andréa. The reporter broke off a few extruding pieces and managed to slip them through the gap. There was a crash and the door shuddered, but nothing more.

To Miranda’s consternation Andréa jumped down, but her look of concentration stopped her again from expressing concern. The girl was tapping her fingers against one of the walls, when she asked, “I need something thin and metallic, maybe… the battery panel from the phone?”

“If you will explain what you are thinking,” she stated.

“I don’t think dropping large hunks of breakable plaster will move the bar down. We need a gradual press of weight, and that means tying up the plaster and lowering it.”

Miranda looked about them even as she found the phone and slipped off the battery cover. “I doubt if even what’s left of that… cloth you have on or even my dress would tie anything or be long enough.”

Andréa nodded and took the offered metal panel. “Yes, but all this wall has been recently panelled, and there should be metal corners we can dig out.” Using the cover’s edges, she cut into the wall plaster near the sides of the doorway, revealing a metal mesh. The girl was soon panting with exertion, and Miranda patted her hands and removed the tool to take over the task. With a few additional blows with pointed concrete, the mesh was exposed as an inch wide corner of flexible metal running the length of the doorway frame. Powder sprayed them both as they pulled on the freed section, stopping only when they reached a few tacks that kept it in place. By now Miranda could see the plan and said, “We’ll need two to balance.”

Andréa’s face lit up with a grin and renewed her attack on the remaining trapped sections. It took another ten minutes, but they soon had two thin strips of metal over six feet long. They were also entirely covered with plaster once more, and both of them were breathing unevenly. A five-minute break was agreed upon. With no furniture, somehow that meant they needed to rest against each other. One of Andréa’s long arms pulled Miranda closer, so that they rested with their heads touching, cuddled in the midst of the destruction.

“You know what is strange?”

Miranda stated airily, “I could provide a list.”

Andréa tried to glare, but there was little energy in it. “This is really, well, right.”

Miranda chuckled sadly. “It is. I just wish we had the time to become used to it.”

“So, you and me, it’s not just a sort of Stockholm Syndrome.”

“I think that would have us bonding with the building, not each other.”

Andréa looked about. “I hate to say it, especially as it was a glorious structure once, but no, I do not have any affection for this building, not anymore. But I have to think, here we are, together, but how much of this is the event, working together like this?”

Miranda leaned closer to Andréa’s ear, which tingled with each breath. “If you must know, this is something I have considered for some time before this.” 

Andréa leaned back further. “How far?”

“Oh, way back.”

“Since the Chanel boots?”

Miranda pretended to think for a moment. “Well, if you replace the word _considered_ with the proper word.”

“And that would be?”

She drew the word out into several syllables. “Fanaticised.”

Andréa’s eyes widened as did her smile. “You really are the greatest motivator I’ve ever met.”

It took only a glance, and they both were up again, Andréa laying the strips a few feet apart, while Miranda selected a weight. Together they placed it on the metal strips and rolled them until the strips could raise the thin slab of moulding. Andréa climbed up once more, and waited for Miranda to pass their construction to her. Once more she slipped the plaster through the gap, and with Miranda’s help, began lowering the weight on the other side of the door. The mesh caught on the top of the door several times, but with trial and error, they found an angle where the drag was reduced. “I feel like a very crude puppeteer up here,” Andréa called down, as she jiggled the strips forward and back. The girl was joking, but Miranda could see the exhaustion and was about to call for another break, when they both heard the sound of the catch moving on the other side.

“I need to have a firmer and smoother drop, and then you need to pull on the door before it catches again, okay?” The straps were aligned, Miranda reached as high as possible to get her fingertips in the lowest part of the gap and… it worked. The door opened a few inches, stopped by the grit and plaster, but it had opened. Andréa collapsed in relief, sliding down the piles of rubble. Miranda leaned forward, grasped her hands and raised her into a grateful hug. “I have no idea how getting in here will help us, but you are a genius.”

Andréa gave a happy if exhausted smile, and shook her head in denial.

“How many compliments do I ever give anyone, you should accept the few that are given, as they are always meant.”

“Sorry. I liked the hug more than the compliments, that’s all.”

“That was never in question.”

Miranda raised the cell phone light ahead of them and ventured gingerly in. The smell of old, cracked concrete was thicker inside, but the space seemed much larger than they’d had on the other floors, though there was no discernable light.

She turned to Andréa. “So what are we doing here?”

“We each take a phone and explore, carefully. First things we need to check…”

“Any signal on the phones.”

“Any access to outside to signal anybody.”

“Not likely. I’m not seeing any light at all. We’re possibly even more covered by the upper floors.”

“I know, but we look anyway.”

There was a pause until Miranda called out. “No signal here.”

“Check it as we move around, we might get a bar. This is a storage area, let’s see what they have.”

Miranda tripped over something unseen but dense and muffled a curse. “What are we looking for?”

“Whatever might be an asset. If you see any explosives, that would be nice.”

Miranda’s soft voice drifted across the space, the sting intact. “Yes, let’s finish off the building ourselves, shall we? Explosives are like mushrooms, if you’re not an expert, leave them alone. I’m not getting any bars, and it’s closed in entirely. No windows, no access to the rear elevators.”

“Same. You go right, I’ll take the left, let’s see what they store up here that we can use.”

For several minutes they opened the few doors that were available, calling out their discoveries.

“More water, but no food.”

“I know you do almost all of the building shipping from here, but a million plus Styrofoam peanuts?”

“Not enough for ten story drop, though.”

“Not unless they were in a big bag or something. Even then… A human body would simply cut right through them and still smash into the ground. Piles of bins with recycled cardboard boxes, about a million of them.”

Miranda chimed in. “Bubble wrap, if you’re still considering flinging ourselves out the nonexistent windows.”

“Still ten floors to drop.”

There was some muttering before Miranda called out, “Forklift, with a fully charged battery!”

“I’ve always wanted to drive one!” Miranda chuckled at Andréa’s enthusiasm.

“You are not driving that little thing through any walls. Unless you feel confident it wouldn’t collapse the rest of the ceiling.”

There was spurt of noise that shocked them both, until Miranda called back, “Found a radio with working batteries. But I refuse to show you until you agree we are not listening to talk radio again.”

“Fine. Put on NPR, they should be covering this.”

“And end up listening to Car Talk?”

“I love Car Talk!”

“Suddenly my earlier doubts about this relationship are making sense.”

“As long as you’re calling it a relationship, I can live without Car Talk.”

They worked in silence for a while, until Andréa asked, “How come there are so many rolls of material?”

“Back drops, as you might expect, also several designers have located themselves in the building and use our departments in exchange for our early previews.”

Andréa examined the rolls, and tore a few sections from them. Miranda was scandalised. “You realise that that roll alone would cost almost one hundred thousand dollars?”

“It’s completely valueless now, especially if it couldn’t support our weight.”

“You’ve got an idea?”

“Nothing that works, I’m afraid. Unless we have a lot of time, and we could somehow tie the rolls,” She shook her head. “Even if we had the time to make a rope with them, none of the material could take any weight for any length of time. They’d need to be knotted or sewn with another material and that would take days. There’s a solution in here, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

The CEO could see that a change of subject was again needed. “Let’s see the elevators.” They both moved to the centre, once again in front of a bank of elevators.

“The main ones to the loading areas in the rear are on the side of the building that is closed off to us. The only lifts are these and they require a key.”

“More security?”

“Supervisors let in staff after they clock in. If they aren’t using the loading elevators, they shouldn’t be transporting anything out of here without permission.”

Andréa shone her light one of the locks. “Instead of prying the lock out, maybe I could…”

Miranda saw where this thought was going. “Any forklift driving will done by me.”

At Andréa’s look of inquiry, she replied, “If there is a job in this building that I haven’t done, I do not know of it.”

“So, not always the Queen.”

“I miss neither the calluses nor the positions. But I value the experience and knowledge.”

“And we need to look down that elevator shaft.”

With an impressive competence, and almost no false starts, Miranda had the forklift angled and forced between the doors. The machine groaned and complained for a moment, but the small lock had little chance against the hydraulics and the doors cracked open. In the light of the cell phone there was nothing to raise optimism.

“No ladders, even if we were both capable of using them. I can’t even see the elevator box. I assume it’s smashed up somewhere down in the sub sub basement. So plus two, that makes it twelve stories to jump.”

Andréa frowned. “Okay, my turn to call break. Maybe the radio will give us some ideas.” They slumped down and leaned heavily against each other, and one hand finding the other. The comfort was short lived, as a news report came over the airwaves.

**-We take you now to our reporter on the scene, Brenda Cavalios at the Elias Clarke building in central Manhattan.”**

**-Brian, I’m standing within the vigil outside the former Elias Clarke building.”**

“Vigil? There’s a vigil? For us?” Andy stared at Miranda, who was speechless.

**-There are several thousands people down here with candles and waiting with hope, that somehow a miracle will occur and the heroes of this great tragedy will emerge from this ruin. As the vigil reaches its tenth hour, even the most faithful must be realising how unlikely that might be. Most of the people I’ve spoken to are employees who escaped the building, and have returned, some with their families, to wait for a most unlikely rescue. Police and emergency crews have forced the group further away from the building as it continues to send down sections of concrete onto the plaza. Earlier on, I was speaking to Serena Bundchen, the Artistic Director for Runway magazine, someone who knew both Miranda Priestly and Andy Sachs from work and in their personal lives.**

**-Serena, it is now over ten hours since the first bomb exploded, and yet the police estimate there are over five thousand people in this crowd. What are you waiting for, what could you possibly be hoping for?**

**-Inside that building are two of the most amazing women I have ever known and I would have said that long before they saved all of our lives tonight. Where else could any of us be, but as close as we could be to them? For them. And,” Here Serena’s voice cracked and she paused, “We all need to be with others that might understand how we are feeling.”**

**-I've noticed you are not allowing bouquets or flowers of any sort to be laid here, why is that?**

**-We are not here to mourn anyone. This is vigil of hope and prayer.**

**-For now.**

**-For now.**

Both women stared, tears gathering in Andréa’s eyes, when Miranda broke the moment to grump, “Why is it, just when I feel I can fall into a relaxed calm acceptance of our situation, something comes along to make me feel some sort of obligation to push on?”

Andréa broke into laughter. “Please do not ever change. I love…” She caught herself.

Miranda’s eyebrow had risen higher than almost humanly possible. When Andréa stalled and stuttered, she closed off and stated, “Stephen had trouble saying certain things. He also told me he didn’t want me to change. Until changing me became a project.”

“Stephen?” Andréa blurted, outraged. “You have all these lists, well do you want mine of how many differences there are between Stephen and I?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

“I have seen you at your best and your worst, and everything in between. And I still…” 

“Yes?” The older woman prodded.

A long deep breath created a pause, but she managed, “I still fell in love with you. Yes. I love the Dragon, I love the mother… and I love those girls. Stephen,” and the name was spat out with disgust, “…couldn’t tell them apart most days.”

“And I should believe this declaration, because?”

“Because… My God, Miranda! Look around. Who would lie, how could _I_ lie at a time like this?” 

“And as you asked, how do I know this is not a declaration founded on this situation?”

“Because I knew I was falling hard in Paris. When you sat there, with no make-up, in that grey dressing gown, and you were so, so beautiful.”

“And I pushed you away.”

“I came back. Please don’t push me away this time.”

Miranda looked down at her hands. Then whispered, “If and when…”

The radio had been prattling away throughout this, but it was white noise to them, until they heard their names once again.

**-More news on the terrorist attack at Elias Clarke. Hope that the heroes of the day, New York natives Andy Sachs and the queen of fashion, Miranda Priestly, might survive has received another blow. Fire has broken out on the fourth floor of the building. And according to sources, burning unchecked. It is believed that the fire is too unpredictable and will cause further collapse of the building, risking what little chance there was that these women could have survived the bombings. The fire spokesperson has told us that they believe a strategic operation to put out the fires will allow for a more controlled collapse in a more enclosed area. Though police and fire departments emphasise that they had been hoping to enter the building to find the heroes of this terrible attack, they will be releasing a statement that the risk to nearby property is too great to ignore this latest fire, and that the full attention of the fire department must be brought to bear. They make their sincere regrets to the families of the heroes, but most experts agree that the extremely small chance that either could be alive is not worth the destruction to property that would definitely occur if this action does not take place. Their prayers are with the families and friends. John Elkhart, NPR, in New York.**

Miranda snorted. “Prayers, how generous. That and a fiver will get me a barely decent cup of coffee, and that’s only when there was an Andréa about.”

She looked over to her partner, unprepared for the verbal explosion that was unleashed.

“Fuck! FUCK! Jesus! What the HELL?”

“Andréa?”

There was no sign of the optimistic woman who’d fought with her all these hours. Miranda had wondered when the breaking point would be reached, and she found absolutely no joy in the desolation she saw in Andréa’s eyes. “We get so close, and then…” She stood, then spun about. “This building really wants us dead! Why is this fucking building trying to kill us? What did we do to it? Now we're going to burn? If we make it through this, will there be plagues of boils? What did you want, God?”

Andréa held up the bits of fabric she’d been picking through and flung them at the wall. “You said I was a genius.” Hot tears streamed down from her eyes. “A genius would be able to figure out how to make explosives from the vats over there. Or rig up a communication system with a coconut.”

Miranda quickly raised herself, stepped over and pulled the reporter into her arms. “Please don’t tell me that I need to slap you, now. You are not Macgyver or the Professor from Gilligan’s Island. I have spent the past dozen delightful hours in your company continuously under the impression you thought you were immortal, and this, this is what brings that brilliant mind to a boil? I have no intention of suffering through these desperate attempts to stay alive and have them mean nothing. Do you understand?”

Andréa withdrew from the embrace to stare, disbelieving, into Miranda’s eyes. “You are ordering me to find a way out of here because you've had to put up with so much?”

“Exactly.”

Andréa shook her head. “It doesn't work that way.”

“It does, my working life is a testament to one fact. Demand the best and you will get it. Andréa? You are the best, and if we survive this, you know I will be like this all the time. Demanding, pushing, prodding you to be the best. Unless you don't think you can handle it.”

There was still some fight left in the younger woman. She tightened their hug. “You mean handle you? I can handle you.”

The CEO looked down to their joined arms. “Manhandling is not the same thing. When I am virtually crippled.”

Andréa ignored her complaint. “I am not going to be pushed and prodded every minute. You are going to have to learn to relax.”

“Do you realise who you are speaking to?”

“Yes, yes, and that's part of handling, manhandling you.”

“If that is all decided, I need to get out of this building. That’s all.”

At the familiar command, Andréa let out a watery laugh. “I don’t have a way, not one that…”

The Dragon waited. “Yes?”

Andréa’s fingers began to tap. “All the ideas I have, need time, and we just ran out.”

“But…?”


	12. Chapter 12

All mail is answered at

**Kamouraskan@yahoo.com**

**Disclaimers in Chapter One**

# Chapter 12

 

Andy turned to face her former employer.

“I have lots of ideas, but… you won’t like them.”

Miranda straightened and frowned. Despite the remnants of the bee suit, despite the blood staining her couture and the speckles of grit coating them both, they suddenly might as well have been back in Miranda’s office a year ago. “And why would that be?” she whispered.

Andy tried not to stutter at the unpredicted appearance of the Dragon. “None of them will work.”

Lips pursed. “Then they hardly count as ideas.” Miranda petulantly glanced at her watch. “I know I might have been harsh on you about being rambling in the past, but right now that lesson might be pertinent.”

Andy gathered herself. “First, I do love you in all your dragon glory but cool it down, or I’ll never be able to explain! How about if I talk while we work?”

Making an attempt at ‘cooling it, Miranda muttered, “Acceptable.”

“Okay, what I am thinking requires all the packing materials and especially the cardboard boxes moved to the elevator, and since you claim to be the only one allowed to drive...?”

While Miranda very stiffly got in the forklift, something Andy was never going to get tired of seeing, she began pulling out the massive but extremely light bags of Styrofoam peanuts to drag over to the open doorway of the elevator.

“We also need to look at the packing crates. I remember S&R claiming they had very specific ones for the ancient vases you had us bring in.”

“They were amphorae,” the CEO corrected.

“Miranda?”

With a small note of apology, she sniffed, “Yes, well.”

“I was worried about their safety. Shipping claimed the boxes they had could be dropped from airplanes and not shatter the contents.”

“I think that might have been hyperbole.”

“Of course, and anyway, the human body has moving parts.”

“Like spleens. I am given to believe they often separate with large falls. Where would these cases be?”

“I’m sure we can find something expensive, in our size, with some flare.”

That brought a small smile to both faces and the tension reduced accordingly.

There was a complete room filled with cases, mostly aluminum-framed, with a series of layered foam inside, which was to be cut into the shape of the chosen contents. They came in a variety of sizes but few were as large as the ones they needed. One was over six feet, and about two or more feet deep, with special impact foam in three layers. It was still light enough for them to carry over to their loading area.

Meanwhile, Andy continued to explain her terrible idea. “Here’s what I was thinking. We can’t walk up and even if we could, it was a fluke this floor was accessible.”

“Not a fluke, ingenuity and sweat.”

Andy allowed a small smile at the compliment. “No way to contact or get through to signal from this floor. So I think, the only way out is down. “ She paused, waiting for Miranda to process the information. She could imagine the mind behind those eyes scanning information databases she could only dream of accessing, until there was a curt nod, which exhilarated her as much as it depressed her. “So the only way down at all, is this shaft. Even if there wasn’t a fire between the lower floors and us, the material on the rolls out there is too flimsy to slide, rappel or climb down, even if we were in shape to do it. Even if we could knot it together, and that’s if we had the time, it wouldn’t take the weight of a large dog, much less one of us.”

Miranda took the time to consider each point productively, by driving away, then returning with another load of cartons. Once she had returned, Andy continued. “I thought of somehow trying to get down a few floors, but once we’re in free fall, the impact won’t change if it’s ten stories or eight. “ Miranda had cringed slightly at the word ‘impact’ but otherwise was stoic. “Swinging from floor to floor if several are on fire won’t work. We have to get right past the fire on the middle floors.”

“On the good side, what we do have is a shitload of bubble wrap and some high tech safety containers. If we create a whole series of layers, with the peanuts and the cardboard, piling it up in the space between the lobby floor and the sub basements, it might absorb the impact enough.”

“Ten stories.”

“Please tell me you can think of anything else, because that’s all I got. AND, the crate has to land flat, not spin around, or hit any of the sides of the shaft as we fall in the crate. I haven’t figured that out. But I know that any impact on an angle might still preserve your beauty, but scramble our internal organs like eggs. The other problem, is that if we do survive, even if by a miracle we’re unhurt at all, we’re gonna need help to get out of the case. If we’re badly hurt but alive…”

“Needing splenectomies.”

“…we’ll need even more help. To open the elevator doors down there, to get out before the Styrofoam peanuts catch fire and roast us in the case.”

Both were silent for a moment.

“I told you I didn’t have any good ideas.”

“I thought you were being self-deprecating as usual.”

“Point for future reference? Life on the line? I get a bit serious.”

“Ah future reference. You seem to have recovered some optimism.”

“Only if you’re with me on this.”

“I see no alternatives. We have three adversaries, the fire, the firemen and the building, which will succeed in killing us in a few minutes. Possibly between the two of us we might make an impossibility possible once again.”

“That sounds like optimism from you.”

“Andréa. We are going to either burn, or fall. A large fall and I am actually hoping we will not be alive to feel it, because I doubt it would be difficult to feel anything but a cage of pain before death. But I see no other possibilities. ”

Andy raised her fist to half-heartedly pump it. “Yay! That’s the spirit.”

While they worked, the building continued to whine and complain, but other than the larger crashes, they were unaware of anything other than putting their mad plan into effect.

When Miranda had hauled another load, Andy was using their little light to make some calculations. “The space down there is about twelve feet by almost fourteen. Each bag should cover about one foot. If we throw down three bags, and then drop two loads of cardboard we can probably fit in eight layers before we reach the lobby level. Then we throw all the couture, bubble wrap and peanuts we have left on top.”

“And we need to find a way to position it somehow and then drop ourselves into that pit.”

Andy nodded. “I know, we need more time.”

“And we still need someone to get us out of our coffin once we land.”

“I know! We don’t have the time to do half of that!”

Andy stared at Miranda, who closed her eyes and said. “I’ll get more cartons.”

It was just as she was about to turn on the forklift, that the radio interrupted with another Elias Clarke news bulletin.

**-We take you back to** **Brenda Cavalios, Brenda, what is going on there?**

The reporter is silent for a moment, allowing the chant from thousands to pour through the speakers.

**“** **Get Mir-an-dy out! THEN. Put the fire out! Get Mir-an-dy out! THEN. Put the fire out! Get Mir-an-dy** **out! THEN. Put the fire out!**

**-Brian, the vigil here is threatening to turn violent. The many thousands of supporters are refusing to give the fire marshals access to the scene. I have Serena Bundchen, the Artistic Director for Runway magazine once again, Serena, what can you tell me about this protest?”**

**-Brenda, the fire marshals have told us that their concerns are solely that if the building falls in the wrong direction, it could damage and block the streets and sidewalks before they can be cleared for rush hour. They are risking the lives of those two women because of possible property damage!**

**-But Serena, you have to know your people can only delay the forces of law.**

**-If we gain fifteen minutes then that’s… something. Or we can force them to get somebody with structural knowledge and the right equipment to enter that building finally and search at least a few floors, then maybe, they can still be rescued.**

Serena’s name was heard.

**-I** **’** **m sorry Brenda, but I need to get back**

**-Thank you. That was Serena Bundchen, the Artistic Director for Runway magazine and apparently a leading organizer of this attempt to hold off the combined police and fire departments. The fire trucks are now stalled in the streets surrounding the former Elias Clarke building, after several attempts to enter by various routes were stymied by the protesters.** **The police are trying to reason with them but I think, yes they are calling out to sit on the ground to make it more difficult for the police to clear the area. It is quite the scene. Amongst the white collar staff are many celebrities, models, members of the business elite dressed in finery that would be more suited for a dinner party than a protest, and I don’t know if you can hear that Brian, but they have begun to sing, We Shall Not Be Moved.**

Both women were frozen in shock. “Holy Cow! We just got ourselves a miracle!”

Miranda got into the cab. “Considering our luck for the last 24 hours, this is only well deserved recompense. We’ve been granted a few precious minutes, Andrea, let us not waste them!”

Slowly they completed each layer of cardboard, dropping them slowly to get as many as possible to lie flat. Then followed with bags of packing peanuts. Then cardboard again.

Andy rested her aching arms and said, “This is just like making a real terrible lasagna.”

“I’ll have you know, I make exceptional lasagna,” Miranda retorted.

“Of course you do, and after our ice cream with sprinkles,”

“I had hoped you were comatose at that point!”

“Nope, first thing, we get the girls and I buy us all ice cream, and you make your exceptional lasagna.”

“It’s a date.”

The Lobby doorway, despite how many miles away it seemed to be, could be discerned from the sub basements ones, and they seemed to have reached it with their last layer. All but one roll of bubble wrap was thrown down with the last of the peanuts, “to give it some stability,” Andy claimed. They were both completely out of their depth in trying to work out dispersal of impact, but it seemed to make sense. The lobby doorway was almost covered, and now it was time to finish their crate.

Andy looked at it with misgivings. “I feel like we are measuring ourselves for our own coffin.”

“And we’re not?”

“I always knew you had a dark sense of humour.”

“Yes, well, if it wasn’t dark, there wouldn’t be any humour at all right now.”

Andy smiled wanly in agreement. The younger woman looked exhausted, what little was left of the bee suit was covered in a mix of various forms of filth, Styrofoam and dotted with bloodstains. Miranda thought it was time for something she might consider good news. “I believe I might have found a solution to your first problem. The case is five feet by six and a few inches. You say the shaft is twelve by fourteen. If we could fall in the center, we would have three and a half feet on each side, which for a fall of seconds, should keep us clear.”

“And how do we fall from the center?

“This forklift has a remote so that individual workers can use it while not in the cab. Not something the National Safety Council would recommend, but it means we can secure the crate, park the forklift as close to the edge, then extend the forks as far as possible above the shaft. That should be enough to place it in the, uh, drop zone. We can climb into the crate while it is secured, release the clamping with the remote, and… we simply lean back.”

Andy swallowed. “Yes. Lean back.”

“Yes.”

Andy forced a smile. “It’s brilliant and all I could have hoped for.”

“Now for our other problem. Having someone out there to open up our coffin right after we lean back.”

Both paced about and Andy brought the only cell phone with any battery left. “If this damn phone would work!” She dropped it on the ground and kicked it in her frustration and despite the debris covered floors, it managed to skitter right across the room. She turned away, holding her head in her hands, when she heard a pinging sound. One eye opened in between her fingers and she turned, tilting her head. Miranda mirrored her position, both looking in the direction of the sound, neither quite believing what it could be.

As if it were a wild animal, Andy approached the mobile phone on the floor cautiously. Miranda, held her arm and cautioned in a whisper, “Don’t move it an inch. That might be the only place a signal…”

“I know.” Andy whispered back.

She knelt down several feet from its location, like a supplicant before an altar. Above, there was another concrete slide, but she ignored the screeching noise, the falling dust and waited. Once it was over, she very carefully positioned herself above the phone. Miranda was also holding her breath. “I can see a bar,” she reported. Holding the phone steady on the floor, she pressed the phone button and heard the most perfect music of her life. A dial tone. She could see Miranda’s eyes widen as she could hear it as well. Andy swallowed and very delicately pressed the 9 and then the two 1’s. There was a ringing tone, a connection made, and voice asked, “Nine One One. What is the nature of your emergency?”

Andy sobbed out, “Oh thank God! This is Andy Sachs, we’re in the Elias Clarke building and,” there was a return of the dial tone. Andy cried out, “hello? HELLO?”

Miranda called over, “Did we lose the signal?”

“I think she hung up?”

“Try again.”

She repeated the numbers but received a recorded message that Miranda could not hear. “What is it?”

“It’s a warning that making prank or false calls to 911 is a criminal offence and can lead to fines and jail time?”

“What?”

“They’ve blocked us. They must be getting a lot of people claiming to be us as pranks?”

“Who else can we call? We need someone, downstairs, beyond a police cordon in ten minutes!”

“Do you know Serena’s phone number?”

“Only her office extension.”

“Nigel?”

“Call Nigel.”

The familiar number was carefully dialed but before it could be rung, another recorded message came through.

“It says… It says that we don’t have sufficient funds to make this call.”

“The Lord seems to enjoy giving and taking away,” Miranda said sourly.

“There’s still enough for a text message. Don’t say anything that isn’t _good idea_ , Miranda. I know this is a long shot but we’re out of time and ideas.”

Miranda nodded. “Good idea. You write, I’ll make the coffin comfortable.”

_Another phrase I never expected to hear._ She began to write in text, then deleted it. If this was a last message, it wasn’t going to be truncated any more than it had to be. She had space, and if it was their last communication, it might as well be in the long form.

Andy carefully hit ‘send’ and waited as the wheels turned. It flashed, ‘message sent’ and she felt like a sailor throwing a bottle with a message into the sea. She called over, “I wrote…”

“Whatever you sent, will be fine.”

“I explained what we needed, but in case… I told Nigel to tell the girls you loved them, and fought every minute to get back to them.”

Miranda closed her eyes, breathed, and allowed a single tear to slip under the lids. “See, I was right to trust you.”

Meanwhile, she’d cut out two large body shapes in the inner foam.

Andy called over, “Remember it has to be large enough for us wrapped in bubble wrap as well. And separate figures. When we land, we should bounce. So no matter how much I want to be holding you, when, we need to be wrapped. Apart.”

“I know, though God know how even I can accessorise bubble wrap.”

“Better hope the garment bags are nearby. Because the Devil emerging from the flames is going to be on every paper tomorrow,” Andy joked.

“If you must know, ever since Nigel described it, I have been waiting all evening to see you in that Chanel. If and when, if there’s any chance… we might look at photos of this night, I do not want to be reminded of that _despicable_ bee costume or holding it while you… you seemed to be, bleeding to death… in my arms.”

Seeing the anguish that was only slightly under control in the other woman’s face, Andy could only say, “Oh, Love…”

Miranda froze. “Love?”

“That's what you took from that?”

“Are we a couple that has affectionate nicknames?”

Yup,” Andy asserted. “Though I think I was just testing that one. Love.” She tasted the word on her tongue, and looked into the eyes of her partner. “Yeah, that’s a start.”

Miranda gave her a rare true smile.

Andy pursed her lips playfully. “In fact…”

The CEO rolled her eyes. “You always have to take that next step, don’t you?”

“If this works, maybe I get to call you sugar muffin!”

Miranda choked. “Death before dishonour!”

“Stop quoting Nancy Blackett and get our coffin ready.”

“It is done.”

Andy measured the space with her eyes. “Of course if there’s no one to open the coffin, I’d like to think of it as a romantic funeral pyre.”

Miranda gave a dark chuckle. “Or the building could collapse while we’re burning, and the fire hoses put it out just in time for our burned bodies to be crushed to death.”

“Ah. Like witches then. That’s a whole other kink for me.”

“You are so damned determined to be positive, and I could kiss you.”

“Yes, you could.”

“Andrea…”

Andy backtracked, seeing the woman’s distress. “Or, I could wait until we’re downstairs.”

“I think,” and the older woman stopped. “You are so perfect, so obliging. I know I haven’t been properly demonstrative, and despite some occasional innuendo, not truly showing how much I…”

Andy interrupted. “Miranda, I get it. We’re under pressure, basically at work.” She gestured about their space, “Sort of in the office. We will always have to be professional about work. For now, innuendo will be fine, as long as the tease ends once we’re safe and alone.”

“I look forward to being downstairs.”

The rolls of bubble wrap were laid on the floor, but Andy stopped. “I have to change.”

Miranda threw up her hands. “Thank god! But into what? You can’t wear the Chanel with bubble wrap!””

“Not changing everything. Yet. I found a bag of fresh panties in the drawers, I’m gonna change into one. I’m squishing a bit. I think some of the blood from my head puddled down there. Dead or alive, my mother would insist I have on clean underwear. When and if, I’m pretty sure after that fall I’ll probably need to change them again.”

“That is, fine, I will wait to change after, if and when, myself.” She stopped and watched as the other woman shimmied out of her pants without any shyness. “Do you often strip in public, Andrea?”

She stopped to grin. “Public? Only friends here. Very close friends.” The Eyebrow rose. “Friends that apparently take off and occasionally leave underwear behind.”

Miranda chuckled. “One swallow does not a summer make.”

“You can consider yourself welcome to leave underwear at my apartment at the soonest opportunity.”

Miranda mounted the cab. “I do not recall visiting your apartment and yet I can picture it somehow…”

“Hey! Stop denigrating my home in your imagination. There's nothing wrong with it that a pair of your panties on the floor couldn't fix.”

The moment was broken as a sharp scent eased its way up the elevator shaft. Andy tensed. “Not good. I can smell smoke.”

Despite all their preparations, it took another five minutes to get the crate mounted and secured on the lift, and then move the forklift so it was almost hanging over the elevator shaft. Andy rolled herself in the bubble wrap, which was flexible enough she could stand and shuffle up to the elevator. Miranda took her place with the wrap. “I’ll need to keep one arm free for the remote and to close the door once we’re in.”

Andy clambered up the side of the lift to where their box waited. “You’re not going to push me over once I’m inside, are you?”

“We're going to drop together.”

There was nothing Andy could say to that, other than, “Wow.”

“Yes, wow. I believe this is truly what some would call a leap of faith.”

“And if not, we fought till the end, right? And I can’t imagine anyone else at my side, at the end.”

“I was about to say that you shouldn't read too much into it.”

“That you want to die with me, you mean?”

“Yes that. I was going to correct you before you became over dramatic, but to my…”

“Horror?”

“Surprise,” Miranda corrected. “I realised that would be a lie. We may be here under circumstances I wish anything could have been avoided… but I know there is truly no one I would want to rush into battle or certain death than you.”

Miranda straightened her shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

Soon they were both snuggly pressed into the molds of the crate. Miranda’s free hand held the remote. Perched above the ten-story drop, neither woman could look at the other. Andy said, “I think my anticipation for this moment was underrated.”

The smoke had begun to thicken. She added, “There better be someone down there soon.”

“This is madness, but I truly hope to see you there, or perhaps in another place.”

“We just lean back, right?”

“WE do it on three,” Miranda instructed.

“See you downstairs, Love.”

“I hope to…darling.”

“All in, Miranda.”

“All in, Andrea.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

And they leaned backwards…

And fell.

##  _dwpdwpdwdwpdwpdwdwpdwpdwdwpdwpdw dwpdwpdwdwpdwp_

Fifteen minutes before, at Miranda’s townhouse, Emily had been hanging up the phone. “Cara’s here. I was thinking…”

“Serena’s right. What she said on the radio. We all need to be with people who might understand.”

“I’ll call Roy. He’ll know someway to get us close to the vigil.”

The car arrived, and the two coworkers slid into the familiar seats, all three occupants trying not to mention the massive void of the missing passenger. They were on their way, when Nigel’s phone buzzed with another text message, and he groaned.

Emily looked over and suggested, “Ignore it. It’s just another of the five hundred messages from the press, crazies or more spam. Do what I did. Delete them all and anything important will be resent tomorrow.”

He rubbed his eyes before nodding agreement. He opened up the text window, finger hovering over ‘delete all’. He rubbed his eyes again, and asked, “Andy’s parents have your private number, right? I won’t be losing anything from them?”

“No worries.”

“Okay.” Then he hit delete.


	13. Chapter 13

**If and When**

A Devil Wears Prada Story

**By Kamouraskan**

All mail is answered at

**Kamouraskan@yahoo.com**

Disclaimers in Part One

Chapter 13

There was a tense silence in the vehicle as Roy piloted them through the city’s darkness to their now, former workplace. Partly still in shock, still numb from the emotional trauma, in addition to the strain of being supportive for the twins. As much as Runway had sometimes seemed like a nightmare of a job, never had they felt so distressed to travel to the building before. The pictures on the television would not be the same as actually standing in front of the crumbling ruins they all knew. Outside, there were sirens wailing, but in the town car the silence became oppressive. Roy, after receiving an affirmative glance from Nigel, turned on the radio. Immediately a familiar local celebrity’s voice filled the car.

**-A huge loss, I mean a great broad, who I know had a huge respect for me. People have told me how good we could have been and that Andy Sachs, wow, right? I bet Miranda was chasing her around her desk back in the day. I would have been chasing her around the desk if she were my assistant, believe me.**

“Pig!” Nigel snarled.

**-But Miranda, always called her Miranda, we both started out, you know, from scratch here in New York** **…**

That was enough, “Turn that idiot off. Started from scratch. Millions from his Daddy, a hundred million when he died, Miranda came here with nothing but her own tenacity and the remains of a working class London accent.”

Emily finally spoke. “That’s what pisses you off? His historical inaccuracy?”

“What?”

“You’re one of the most enlightened men I know and you think pig, and that’s it. Because that’s what it is to you. One guy being a pig, move on.”

“”What the hell are you talking about?”

“That’s what men do, Nigel. And I don’t want to talk about it. That’s what we do. We don’t talk about it.”

“Emily?”

“It’s just that…” The tears that she’d been fighting throughout the time with the twins, overflowed. “Miranda knew. Better than anyone, she knew. Miranda would have never, never… because she’d been there, and, nothing happened when Andy worked there, because… we had a safe place.”

“Of course, I know that.” Nigel patted her hand, which was abruptly pushed away.

“Don’t say, of course!” She fought for calm, and continued in a quieter voice. “And now, it’ll be implied, inferred, a joke, because they won’t be here to fight it…”

“We’ll fight, Em. No one will dare, we’ll make sure.”

A phone beeped again, Emily choked out, “Delete them all!”

Nigel reached into his coat pocket. “It’s not the work phone. It’s MY phone.”

Emily shrugged. “So what? More condolences? You really feel like answering them?”

“I’ve given everybody a quote for tonight. But I’m not deleting everything on my personal phone without looking.”

It had been a few hours since he’d last checked his calls, and with the disaster there were lines and lines of emails, none of them mattered in the face of the tragedy he was being forced to accept. He moved to hit delete, but he was after all, always a professional, and painstakingly scanned and ticked each box individually. His eyes blurred for a moment, and they almost missed one header, already ticked, ready to delete... Was it spam?

**B-GIRL ALIVE!**

His breath caught. _No. Just a coincidence…_

He turned to Emily, her face and eyes as reddened as his. "Did you tell anyone what Andy was wearing?"

The bloodshot eyes rolled. “What she was wearing? I would burn the memory out rather than share it.”

“Crap crap crap." He hit the line but it seemed to take decades to open the text. He read it, eyes widening.

**Nige, this is the girl in the bee costume. This is not a hoax, we’re trapped on the tenth floor. If you need more proof, M says no more neons and pastels. We’ve tried 911 but they cut us off before we could prove who we are. We have injuries and we know about the fire.**

He called up ahead, his voice unsteady. “Roy, how long till we get there?”

Roy looked ahead to traffic. “About ten minutes?”

“Make it five, four if you can. Run over people if you have to.”

**We plan to fill the elevator shaft with packing materials and get in a packing crate and drop down. If we survive, we need someone to get us out of the middle front elevator bank before the packing peanuts catch fire or we bleed to death. Can you get someone there in ten?**

The time stamp showed it had been sent two minutes before. _They had been alive two minutes ago._

**If not, tell the girls their Mother fought to get back to them and loved every day with them, tell my parents they brought me up just right, and like Marilyn said, say goodbye to yourself because you’re a nice guy.**

# CU I hope

Emily was watching Nigel’s face intently. “What’s going on?” For the first time in hours, there was a focus.

He threw his hands apart and cried, “Gird your loins!”

Her response was a one-word celebration. “Miranda?”

They screeched to a halt as close as Roy could get to the main collection of official vehicles. Emily pushed him towards the police, while she headed to the ambulances. Both of them had tried to lower their optimism upon rereading the message. Both could not decide what to doubt. That it was real? That two injured women could be planning such a risk or that they could survive it? But slim as it was, the odds might be increased with professional help. So as Nigel headed to speak to officialdom, Emily was going to get some medical assistance.

Lawrence Barry had been an EMT for just two months, and already had known most of the highs and lows associated with the job. At the moment, one of the highs was that the job came with a full winter coat. The lows were the waiting, not knowing what might be needed or how bad it might be. He had passed his qualifications in the standard time, had just been dumped by a girlfriend who had thought that his job was exciting but decided after a few months, he wasn’t. There was little for him to do, as the police had kept the crowds away from most of the danger areas, and the loads that continued to drop were falling from such a height that there was ample warning for any creeping bystanders to get out of the way. Still he waited if needed, glad to be warm in the night cold, hoping there was nothing for him to do until his shift ended.

He was a nice guy, working a difficult job. He was used to having people approach him on the job, that was the point of wearing a jacket with Emergency Services emblazoned across it with yellow reflective bands across the waist and arms. So when he saw a gorgeous redhead stride through the crowd towards him, crooking her finger at him like she already owned him, he can be forgiven for having a few unprofessional hopes. The woman who was walking towards him was moving with an urgency he was quite used to, though not the almost fanatical dedication in her eyes.

“I need you to come with me.” The British accent was pleasant, though the tone of instruction was very clipped. He assessed her for any injuries automatically, and she didn’t appear to be in shock, though the pale skin was worrisome. He realized he’d been staring into her face as she rattled off a series of instructions involving demands for a portable defibulator and materials for splints.

“Are you listening to me? Get your stuff and we’ll meet you over there.”

He was nodding, losing a little of his concentration because she really was beautiful, when he realized the problem. She was very crazy.

She had indicated what was left of the entrance to the Elias Clarke building. He was about to explain why this was not about to happen, about safety, orders and a huge list of reasons why this was not going to happen, when suddenly, her very long talon like fingers were painfully grasping his privates. “We need to go in there with the equipment I just listed immediately, do you understand?” and though he knew it was definitely not an intelligent course of action, he shook his head, quite fervently, hoping that someone nearby would notice this assault and come to his aid, but without his having to move even an inch.

“You have a choice, either you find that equipment, and move right now, or you’ll be finding out the effectiveness of testical attachment surgery.” The mad woman showed him her free hand, the lengthy pointed nails glinting in the emergency lights. “There are not extensions, and they are filed to the edge. I don’t think there would be anything left to stitch up, do you?”

Surely someone would stop this woman before they got anywhere near the entry, so this time he nodded with enthusiasm and pointed out the required bags.

Nigel had tried to be more diplomatic. It took precious moments before he was able to show enough ID to wade through the conflicting agencies involved in such an event, and speak to the Deputy Commissioner for the Office of Emergency Management. Despite the fact that nothing was happening other than the protests, streams of assistants, members of competing factions and press all seemed to be more important than Nigel. Near breaking point, he finally cornered the Deputy and shouted over the hubbub, “I’m the Editor of Runway, and I just received a text from Miranda Priestly!”

He was immediately grabbed on either shoulder of his YSL coat and dragged to one side. A furious commissioner berated him. “What the hell? If those nuts over there think that she’s alive, we’ll have a stampede, do you want that?”

“Because she was! I can verify every detail, this text IS from Andy Sachs and Miranda, and it was sent ten, no, twelve minutes ago.”

Grudgingly the official glanced at the text. “Oh please. We know they were trapped on the upper floors before the first bomb exploded. The elevators collapsed not long after. Views from the helicopters show no signs of life or even stairwells to get down. They died eight hours ago. Accept it.”

Before Nigel could interject, he continued. “Look, even if this was true, jumping from a tenth floor? We saw that in 9/11. You know,” and his voice dropped, “When there is no hope left, people don’t wanna burn. They jump. If I were you, I’d prefer to think they died quick, than they had to jump to their deaths.”

Nigel crumbled a bit, and the Commissioner moved to finish the job. “AND, If I hear that this information, or anything like it is being disseminated, or reported on, and one person gets a single bruise because of that, you will be sued by the City of New York. Do you get me?”

Neither man had noticed the nearby reporter jotting away in his notepad, or that he was now racing to his news truck. Nigel was released and thinking hard, strode to the opposition ranks.

“Serena!”

“Nige!” The Glamazon ran over and crushed the smaller man in a ferocious hug. He pulled away, ignoring her surprise at the rejection and indicated they needed to speak alone. She waved off a few people and followed him away from her group.

“What’s going on?”

Nigel pulled out his phone. “I got this just over ten minutes ago.”

In the midst of the slashing emergency lights, it was a difficult read, but after a minute she realised what she was looking at. There were some muttered exclamations in Portuguese, before she began dragging Nigel back to her friends. Nigel managed to stand his ground, and tilting his head, spoke into her ear. “NO!” He pointed to the gathered officials still watching him. “They just told me I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone I got this. They’ll sue me, you and everyone here.”

Serena’s eyes were wide. “But you realise what this means!”

“It means, we have to get in there. But we don’t need a mob crashing inside that building, but… we do need a mob.”

Serena’s quick mind, sped over their options. “A distraction?”

“So Emily and I and an EMT… should be enough, but we have to get across this square with no one stopping us.”

“We can do that…” Serena noticed two rather beefy individuals making their way from the officials towards them. “You better blend into the crowd while we work out how to do this.”

“Be quick!”

“I know what’s on the line here, Nigel. You just be ready when we make our move, okay?”

It was over fifty yards, Nigel guessed, from where they were and the doorway, with at least two dozen armed police in between. Any doubts he had, were for tomorrow. Now they had to act, even if it was just to rescue the bodies of his friends.

He saw Emily searching for him in the crowd, and with head low, he called her over. “They won’t let us through. Serena’s going to make a rush, something, so we’ll have a clear run. Are you up for this?”

She glared at him for daring to ask. He chuckled at their combined foolishness. “I got us an EMT, just in case.” Neither wanted to contemplate all the various options contained in the just in case. Emily pivoted to where she had left Lawrence. He was still there, trying not to rub his crotch.

“You, come!”

Strangely, when Larry saw the approaching Brit, he did not obey, but actually looked to begin running in the opposite direction, where he slammed into Nigel. He began to apologise, when Emily arrived on the other side, with a menacing gleam that froze him in his tracks.

“What’s your name?” Nigel asked.

“Lawrence Barry.”

“Larry Barry?” Nigel’s eyebrows rose. He shrugged, while maintaining his grip on the young man. “So this isn’t the worst night you’ve ever had?” Lawrence’s face veered towards Emily, before returning to Nigel, pleading in every line. Nigel tried to be comforting. “Lawrence, you have a professional calling. There are two injured women in there, and we know where they are to the foot. We are going in and they will need your help. If we’re wrong, you will tell everyone we forced to go with us. If they are there, and you help, you’re a hero. It’s all good. Stop thinking so hard and get up and DO Your Job.”

Lawrence still needed one more assurance. “Just, tell her to stop hurting me!”

Nigel looked over to the determined redhead and smiled. “She’s just doing _her_ job, Lawrence. If you do yours, she’ll stop hurting you. In fact, I should have that made into a poster and hung on her office wall.”

He rose on tiptoe to scan above the crowds. “Remember, Lawrence. Two injured women who may have no time left. When we start running, you run with us, have I your word?”

Nigel had lost sight of Serena, but just when he was becoming frustrated, there was a surge of protesters charging towards the fire engines on the left and the officialdom cars to the right of them. There were shouts and calls in the chaos, and though he was worried about his friend in the rush, he had eyes only for the break that was created as police ran to assist.

Grabbing his co-conspirators, he cried, “Let’s GO!”

**-John, I understand that things have heated up down there again.”**

**-Yes, the protesters have suddenly charged the police and fire trucks, I have no idea what their intentions are, it seems well organized and, hold on, I don’t know if you can see that, but three people have just taken advantage of the distraction and they are racing towards the doors of the building. Have you got that?**

**-Yes, we have that on our screens. Ladies and Gentleman, I will remind you we are live at the Elias Clarke building in downtown Manhattan.**

**-It seems as though they are intending to break into the collapsing building. One of them, yes, it seems it’s the Editor in Chief, of Runway, Nigel Kipling and a woman who, I have been told is a former assistant of Miranda Priestly, they are attempting, unsuccessfully it appears, to enter the building. As they have been stopped by a police officer, and it sounds, it sounds like they are very upset, they are using language that… oh my, did you see that? The little redhead just cold cocked that officer and all three are under the tape and racing for the doors. Did you see that punch?”**

**-Well John, I'm pretty sure that officer didn't because he is just getting up now…”**

**-Sorry to interrupt, but we have something coming in though our news desk, Bob, what have you got for us?**

**-Actually John, it’s information coming from where you are down in front of what remains of the Elias Clarke building. Apparently, there is a report that there was a call, less than fifteen minutes ago and we are being told that it came from Andy Sachs, one of the two heroes who were trapped inside before the bombs exploded. The text we are told, claimed that they were alive, this is as of fifteen minutes ago, alive and somehow on the tenth floor of the Elias Clarke building. Now we must remind you, this is an unconfirmed report of a text sent to Nigel Kipling.**

**-Well, Bob, I’m standing here and from what I can see, the 10th floor is in flames. So how… reliable, would you say this information is?**

**-We understand that the call went to Nigel Kipling, the editor of Runway, apparently a friend of both of the ladies. The information we have been given, says that both ladies had somehow survived all of the explosions, were trapped by the fire and were about to use some sort of packing crates to drop the ten stories through or down the elevator shaft. That call is what we can presume, caused the scene you just witnessed, or we all witnessed down front seconds ago, where Nigel Kipling and another employee of Runway magazine, forced their way, quite violently, into the building.**

**-Listen to me. I know buildings, I build the best buildings, so I know what I’m talking about. The ceilings are about what?**

**-15 feet on average.**

**-Right, and that’s considered high. In my places, we got like twenty five, thirty, thirty five feet, maybe fifty, because it’s the greatest, but what ten floors, and fifteen, what’s that?”**

**-One hundred and fifty.”**

**-Right? See I know my stuff, and my stuff is saying bull …pucks.”**

**-We’re told they used materials to cushion the fall and…”**

**-I don’t care what you use for packing, humans do not drop almost two hundred feet, and if they do that, they’re looking at two squashed ladies right now. In fact, I’ll make book on it.**

**-well, ummm thank you for that, Bob, can you try to verify that text message?**

They were all out of breath, Larry in a sort of shock, not believing what they’d just done, and were still doing. Nigel and Emily crashed through the inner doors, careened around the reception desk, forcing from their minds, the signs of complete destruction surrounding them.

“Main bank, center lift?” Emily shouted.

“Yeah,” Nigel gasped out. Lawrence looked behind them, expecting to see the mob or waves of police following them, but they were busy keeping back the protestors. He was alone with the mad people.

His thoughts were broken when Nigel tapped his shoulder and pointed to the center elevator door. “We need to pry that one open, now!”

Considering the destruction and rubble all around him, more vandalism seemed reasonable. There was a pause; both Emily and Nigel appeared to have a moment of hesitation. Was there any point to this? Was there anything behind the door? Did they want to see it? Was it a hoax? Had they risked their reputations and lives for a text?

With a mental shrug, all three moved to the side of the elevator door and managed to get their fingers into the slit. With a bit of grunting, the door gap appeared and widened and Nigel saw the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

Packing peanuts began to fall through the gap from inside.

He and Emily began to giggle, almost hysterically as the gap widened and thousands of the Styrofoam bits flooded the lobby.

There was almost no light, but there was a flashlight on his key chain and he found it and turned it on. The peanuts continued to flow through his legs, slowly revealing a large aluminum packing crate, lying partly on its side. There was no movement or sound. He waded through the packing materials.

Towards the crate.

To open it up.

God knows what they'd find. Could he bear it? Was he prepared for what he would see?

For better or worse, they'd called him, and he'd do his duty to them... unto the last.

His back wedged against the door, he looked at Emily, her now tear-stained face nodding her understanding and she withdrew, leaving one hand gripping the elevator door, head and shoulders turning away from the box. It was resting on an angle, and it took no effort to shift it upright.

His hands trembled just a little as they reached out to grip the latch as firmly as possible. On the other side of the door, Emily steeled herself her jaw firm, eyes closed. She heard the slight intake of air as the lid was raised and then the shock as Nigel burst out cursing. "Jesus Christ!" Then the whomp! of the dropping the lid as if it were burning his hands. Emily's eyes which had already filled with traitorous tears, pouring with abandon down her cheeks. She heard herself sobbing, and Nigel calling to her, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t turn towards him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My thanks for being allowed to play in your sandbox, I will always remember your graciousness. But this is The End. There are no epilogues, no sequels, this is how I planned it all out. I simply hope you enjoy the ride, right to the very last paragraph.

If and When

**A Devil Wears Prada Story**

**By Kamouraskan**

All mail is answered at

**Kamouraskan@yahoo.com**

Disclaimers in Part One

 

**Conclusion**

_His hands trembled just a little as they reached out to grip the latch as firmly as possible. On the other side of the door, Emily steeled herself, her jaw firm, eyes closed. She heard the slight intake of air as the lid was raised and then the shock as Nigel burst out cursing. "Jesus Christ!" Then the whomp! Of the dropping the lid as if it were burning his hands. Emily's eyes which had already filled with traitorous tears, poured with abandon down her cheeks. She heard herself sobbing, and Nigel calling to her, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t turn to him._

Until she heard his laughter.

Her head snapped out of the palms of her hands and turned to see his red and embarrassed face, shocked as he continued to chuckle.

"They're fine," he told her. But she assumed that he meant that they were peaceful in death and couldn't understand why the laughter had only calmed to a shame-faced grin. Nigel realised that she was still confused and reached over to lift the corner of the box and called into it, “S'alright?”

And the box, for what else could be speaking, replied with a guttural “S'alright” which set Nigel off again as he dropped the lid once more.

Emily had endured many, almost always imbecilic, American cultural references, and Nigel was her usual go to guy for explanations. “What does…” _The voice, so deep, was it not them at all? Had it been a hoax? But who…?_

Nigel shook his head, reading her confusion. “It’s them alright. It’s just, they’re in a box!” He shrugged his shoulders. “And I knew Andy would get it, it's an old television reference, a ventriloquist, always on the Ed Sullivan show, how Andy knows all this stuff, I have no idea…”

He was cut off, literally, by very small but very strong hands around his throat and the demand, “What the bloody hell is in that box! Are they alive?”

“Oh yeah. They're alive and, well… kicking.”

“Thank God!” She slid down the doorway to squat on the floor in relief. Then her eyes darted back to Nigel’s. “They said they were injured, why aren’t we getting them out, to a hospital?”

“Because they needed a minute, to ah…they were celebrating bring alive…”

“Now? In that BOX? Miranda? And that….”

There was a scream of massive proportions about to emerge Nigel knew, so he pulled her through the peanuts, placing a finger against her lips. It might have temporarily dammed the emotional outburst, but Emily’s face became an unhealthy red. In fear, he stuttered the worst possible explanation. “No no, they were just kissing, I mean, they're completely wrapped… in bubble wrap, though I could see Andy was on top…”

As her brain imagined the mental picture, Emily snapped. She jumped into the shaft, causing an explosion of packing peanuts, and was further enraged to hear whispers and perhaps giggles. She began to hammer on the lid screaming, “Stop that! Stop that! STOP!!!”

Nigel grabbed her under her armpits and began to pull her away, shouting over the yelling, “They’re injured, remember?”

Emily’s eyes glowed with righteous fury. “Clearly not nearly enough!”

Her diatribe was silenced, when the lid flipped open with a crash and, like some of the fantasies Emily had occasionally entertained late at night, the head and shoulders of Miranda Priestly arose, vampire-like, from the box.

“Emily,” she said simply, and the assistant ceased struggling, swallowed and managed a prim, “Yes, Miranda?”

“Am I right in assuming that you have been looking after my children?”

Her head bobbing, she squeezed out, “Yes, Miranda.”

“And how are they?”

It was almost a foolish question, but Emily was the last person in the world to point this out to Miranda, and she said diplomatically, “They will be much better when they see you.”

Miranda considered that, and said quietly, “Thank you. You did well.”

Emily was about to mutter a pleased thank you when Miranda moved on to the next item on the agenda.

“I believe that this building could still collapse?”

Nigel nodded. An imperious gaze dropped on Lawrence.

“And this is the emergency medical personal you brought?”

Another nod

“And the press?”

“Outside in force.”

“Well then, I hope we have time to change, because they are not getting a photo of Miranda Priestly as a victim.” She turned to look beside her, “Or any sort of Bee costume, is that understood?”

A voice from beneath her crooned. “Only that you are quite mad. But in a very wonderful way.”

Lawrence, finally spoke. “You’re all mad. Look, lady…”

Ignoring the extraneous voice entirely, Miranda continued to organise. “Is Roy here? I do not plan to go to a hospital in some sort of public ambulance. And Andréa has a serious head wound.”

“And you have a broken ankle,” came the voice from within the box

Miranda pursed her lips, “And I possibly have some sort of injury to my ankle, so we must be out of this packing material, changed and into my car as quickly as is possible.”

“Blaah!” Andréa emerged, spitting Styrofoam. Her eyes focused on the redhead as she attempted to extricate herself from the crate. “Emily? She is a bit mad. Do we really have time to change?”

Emily, caught once more between the facts and Miranda’s demands, looked desperately to Miranda, who thankfully continued to manage. “Nigel, to begin with, help Andréa, any extra exertion and her head might explode.” Andrea snickered at the way concern had been expressed, but help was appreciated. Nigel gallantly offered an arm and lifted the woman out of their crate, and held her steady as the blood rushed to her head on the unstable flooring.

Shaking it off, Andy said to her former crate mate, “Maybe you should wait in there. I find it comforting to think of you in bubble wrap for a while.” But Nigel had already moved through the remaining Styrofoam to assist his boss, and even in bubblewrap, she made the exit elegantly.

“Don’t forget the girls!” Andréa pointed to the corner where the garment bags could be seen poking through the peanuts.

Lawrence tried to be the voice of reason. “People? Remember? Collapsing building, on fire? We need to exit this place now! Immediately!”

Each of the others in the room was, to their personal pain, aware that people telling Miranda what to do was not a recommended activity. She did not disappoint. “Little Man. Whatever your name is. I am not going out in front of national television cameras covered in another person’s blood.”

Andy realised that Miranda was about to unleash an entire giant sized can of Dragon whoop ass on a possibly innocent bystander, so even as she accepted help in unwrapping herself, she attempted a diversion. “Miranda, you can dis my grandmother’s cerulean sweater. I’m almost okay with that… and THAT took two years. But now, my BLOOD isn’t even fit to wear? I bet if it was Dolce and Gabanna blood… which I can spell now, by the way, or Valentino blood, you'd have no problem.”

An eyebrow was raised loftily. “Two years to learn to spell blood? After spell check, how many editors do they employ at your little paper?”

The now freed hands flew into the air. “The paper, right! Nigel a phone, please!”

“While you do that, I’ll call the girls.” Emily was already busy on her own phone so Miranda glared at Lawrence. “You, give me your phone.”

Lawrence had his phone half way out before he remembered his vocation. “Sorry M'am, you need to go to a hospital, right now. In an ambulance and my phone must, at all times, in fact, I am required by LAW...”

“Ma’am?” Miranda’s voice had dropped and even Andy retreated knowing this would not be nice. “My name is Miranda. Do you understand? I do not MUST anything. I do not _must_ go to a hospital. I can have a shed in my backyard ready for open-heart surgery if that's what I wish. And you are denying me the opportunity to speak to my children?” Miranda summoned up her best glare, following it with an icy, “If I do not have a working communication device in my hands when I am finished EXPLAINING the facts to you, I will ensure that not only will you not be able to find employment anywhere in the western world, I am vindictive enough to select random friends and family of yours for the same fate. And, if you call me m'am once more, it will not matter if you do not give me your phone because I will have taken it from your cold dead hands.” In counterpoint to her speech, a large section of the building shifted and several ceiling tiles fell amongst them.

Lawrence, looked to the damage, and then to the rest of the group, assuming he’d see sympathy, and support, but there was absolutely none. Shaking his head and sighing, he pulled his phone from his pocket. Miranda purred at the sight of it. “Good boy. Now see to Andréa, She also lost an inordinate and unhealthy amount of blood.”

Andy, was already with the newsroom, and attempting to be subtle. “Yes, I thought Greg might be in. Greg _really_ would like to talk to me. Right away. I see. Tell him… tell him that the symphony piece may have to wait because the other story became a bit more important. Yes, it’s very urgent. The symphony piece, yes…” There was a long pause as Miranda was unwrapped and began to dial her own number, but in the relative quiet they all heard booming from Andy’s phone, “Is this a joke? Sachs?!!”

As each spoke into their phones, Lawrence seized on their preoccupation to lead them out of the elevator shaft into the lobby, which they did without interrupting any of their conversations. As they continued their phone calls, he prodded the two survivors through the rubble over to a reception table and was pleased to see the relief in their faces they sat with the weight off their legs, both leaning into the other.

Emily was busy trying to convince Leslie that she needed to put her entire agency on alert and travel to midtown before the sun rose. “No, now. I am not drunk or crazed. We are about to become the biggest story in the country, and she needs her media consultant here. NOW!”

“NO? Are you joking? You want four thousand words, daily, AND the symphony piece? I don’t care if you never reassigned it!”

“No darling, of course we’re all right. A few bumps and bruises, and we’ll be home and we’ll have breakfast together.”

“Yes, Roy. I have no idea how you are expected to get the car through the police, fire and protestors, just gird your loins.”

Miranda pulled the phone away from her mouth. “Emily, call the school. Notify them the girls will not be in tomorrow, today.”

“I don’t want an extra day! Four thousand words a day, I could manage. Oh, a book? A screenplay? Really? You think?”

“When is Leslie arriving? WE are managing this story, not that braying mob outside.”

“Leslie is on her way.”

“Roy is on his way.”

Lawrence continued to work quietly. The building continued to quake. Sirens and helicopters moaned and thudded outside. He sponged the blood away from Andy’s wound, wincing as he examined the cut and bandaged it, all the while muttering, “Mad. They’re all mad and I’m going to die with them. Why?”

Miranda ignored the muttering while examining the EMT’s work, and satisfied, moved to other business. “Emily. Contact my first assistant. The girls tell me there are cards and flowers appearing everywhere. I want each and every note or message that can be replied to, given a reply and a thank you. That is including those for Andréa as well. Any flowers and gifts are to be donated to children's hospitals and care homes at your discretion. Nigel, we’ll need some assistance with the dresses.”

Andy continued to negotiate. “Control the story? I’m smack dab in the story, Greg.”

Miranda had the girls get Cara, but while still on the phone, and with a strange intensity in her eyes, she began removing the torn sections of bee costume that remained.

Andy obligingly raised her arms, and relayed her discussion with her editor. “Greg says I have to lock up everyone’s statements, so ours is the only authentic version. Not only can we control this story, but he says I can make ludicrous demands for a book and… writing a screenplay?” She looked to her partner for an opinion. “What do you think? And, oh yes. He especially wants the redhead who punched the cop.”

Andy watched the brilliant mind clicking away, and then the CEO nodded. “Emily, tell Leslie I will have exclusives over all statements, including yours and Nigel’s. She can conference me tonight, to discuss with Andréa what will be released.”

“Emily, Nigel?” She sought confirmation from both minions, but it was clear Emily was struggling. “What is it?”

“I assaulted a policeman, I have to tell them why!”

Andy held up a finger while listening. “Greg says…. if I have control, when they make the film I can demand casting. He says Emily Blunt might be a good fit.”

Emily squealed, “I love her!”

“Thanks, Greg. That worked. Yes, she’s all starry eyed.”

The stars were partially cleared. “Until they lock me in a filthy New York Police cell, thank you very much.”

“I’ll send in one thousand words, NO! That’s all, then four thousand tomorrow after I call you. Remember, hospital bed, surviving? Thank you, Greg.”

Lawrence once again attempted to be a voice of rationality as he examined Miranda’s ankle. “You people are aware, at least, that this building is collapsing and on fire, right?”

He was unsurprised to be entirely ignored.

“Yes, soonest, loves. Yes, Andréa as well. Of course, Bobbsey. Unless there is something important in school? Good. Put Cara back on the line and we’ll arrange for your schoolwork to be brought home for today. Oh, yes. Andréa will be staying at the Townhouse.”

Andy knocked away Nigel’s hands as they dressed her. “Excuse me? Was I consulted?”

Miranda did not retreat, but unusually for her, she did not advance. “I am not manhandling you. The twins are demanding to see you. Apparently I have little choice in that. There will be press all over your building, my home has the security to keep them at bay. If we need medical attention, we can share nursing care.” Having marshalled the rational arguments, she knew the sentimental, and true reasons would have more effect. “I… would feel extremely bereft if you were not nearby for the next few hours, and I believe you might feel the same.”

That brought a soft smile to Andy’s face. “Of course, if you have a good argument, but the tone was a trifle, demanding.”

“Then I will ask, will your parents be staying at the Townhouse?”

“I think they can do with a decent hotel,” Nigel interrupted carrying shoes, and grimaced slightly before speaking apologetically to Andy. “They turned down the offer of the private jet to bring them here this evening, because they had _things_ to organise but will be arriving commercial this morning. Late this morning.”

Miranda’s eyes conveyed her shock. Andy remembered the fit she’d thrown to get to the twins’ recital. She could only imagine what she would have moved in heaven and earth had their lives been endangered.

“Does it truly have to be a nice hotel?”

Lawrence found his voice. “There’s too much swelling to say if it’s broken, but you can’t put any weight on it until we get it x-rayed.”

Andy looked down at the mentioned limb with concern. “We do have to get out of here. And we should at least move further away from the shaft. I can see flames up there and we don’t want that forklift falling down on us, or anything else. Had enough of things falling on me already.”

“Forklift?” at least one voice asked.

“Yes,” said Andy, enraptured. “You should have seen Miranda driving it about, completely professional.”

“Of course,” Nigel chuckled.

Lawrence raised his head. “ _Fork_ lift? For what?”

“We needed to move all the packing stuff and to fall in the centre of the shaft.”

He moved to the side and looked towards the still open elevator doors. “How far did you fall from?”

“Shipping department on the Tenth Floor.”

His jaw dropped. “You fell. In that box? Ten stories? Onto a layer of peanuts?”

Miranda corrected him. “That layer, as you call it, is one of several dozen we laid going down thirty feet into the subbasement.”

“You threw all this stuff down, thirty feet of packing and then jumped,” he stated disbelievingly.

“No, we sort of leaned back.” Andy unsuccessfully repressed the shudder.

“Leaned back?” Nigel closed his eyes. Miranda nodded, her stoicism firm.

“That’s impossible,” the EMT asserted.

“We know!” Andy enthused, blithely ignoring anyone’s doubt. “Absolutely impossible! Though a pretty kinky first date. How are we going to top it?”

Nigel dramatically gasped. “What do you mean, first date? You’ve been dating for weeks. You two are the only ones who weren’t aware of it.”

There was a sputtered, yet British, “They’ve been dating?”

“Okay, only you two and Emily,” he corrected himself.

Miranda demurred. “Second or third date, I thought we agreed.”

At Nigel’s over the glasses stare, Andy explained. “Classic third date. Sleepover. Drinks, bit of making out, fireworks.”

“The earth certainly moved.”

What they thought was another sliding of concrete was actually the grinding of Emily’s teeth. While Lawrence simply had his head in his hands.

“Though the girls have been encouraging us, I think proof of consummation would be TMI.”

Andy sagged back against her. “Yes, well, I know I feel consummated.”

Lawrence groaned, but moved to finish wrapping Miranda’s ankle. He muttered to Nigel, “She’s dating _her?_ What do she use, a chair and whip?”

“Perhaps on the fourth date?” Nigel responded, before he could stop himself.

His comeback earned a rejoinder, as he had feared.

“Nigel, though I am so very grateful for the manner in which you are now whiling away your evening, can I assume you have spent some of the last many hours arranging for use of printing presses and office space for most of the employees of Elias Clarke? So that the majority of those people waiting outside will still have jobs?”

Thanking his God that he had an answer, Nigel replied, “Emily has it all in hand. I just stood aside and watched.”

Miranda made a cursory examination of her ankle’s wrapping, and slid to the ground, weight on her good leg. Over Lawrence’s protest, she limped over to her former assistant.

“Emily. Having, unfortunately, been the ones that stayed in the building with the bombs, your… upset… now seems quite reasonable. And the fact that you went to comfort my children, that you protected them, looked after my business concerns, I have no words to describe my debt.”

Andy looked on, amazed. “If she had sword she'd be knighting her.”

“She did good. You would have been proud of her outside. She’s probably going to jail for assaulting an officer.”

“Really?”

“Or get a medal. This IS New York.”

Having made the rare effort, Miranda returned to business. “If Andréa is ready, do her makeup in a way that I'd approve.”

Blinking back tears once more, Emily nodded and murmured, “Yes, Miranda.”

Andy, still clearly on an adrenaline rush, moved to hug the woman as she approached, something Emily nimbly managed to avoid. She looked about for a light source as she pulled out her make-up kit, but found Andy already had a phone light on.

“Be careful. According to Nurse Priestly, my head might blow up,” Andy confided.

Emily chose appropriate colours and grumbled, “Please. _Your_ head?”

Andy’s smile almost lit up the room by itself. “Emily. You care! At least enough to explode your head in sympathy.”

Rolling her eyes, Emily tried to deny any such thing. “Sympathy is not why...”

“Aw. Emily. We were having a lovely moment. Don't ruin it.”

Time was passing far too slowly for Lawrence. The building continued to groan and shudder, but within ten long torturous minutes both women were dressed and made-up. The Chanel making the most of Andrea’s attributes, though Miranda appreciated the bare shoulders, she clucked and put her hand out towards Nigel, and dropped her frown only when appropriate jewellery was dropped into her hand. Her own frock was full length, disguising any bandaging, and the neck collar did not require any bling.

Lawrence begged, “You look positively lovely, can we leave now?”

Nigel confided, “It _is_ only for long distance lenses.”

There was very slight nod, and reading the others responses, Lawrence sighed heavily. Nigel’s phone trilled, announcing that Roy had managed to arrive near the entrance. But just when the EMT had his hopes raised that the madness was over, he made the mistake of announcing he would run out to get the stretchers.

And The Dragon returned.

“What is going on in that tiny little mind of yours? We are walking out. Did you not think there was a reason we went to all this trouble? Did you think it was to be photographed on… stretchers?”

Lawrence was perfectly certain there had been no reason involved in anything that had happened over the last portion of his life. He was about to explain that though he had taped up her ankle as best as possible, it could not handle walking about. He was almost about to get those words out, when Andy interrupted.

“Is this because you gave your word?”

Miranda’s silence was a sufficient answer.

“I refuse to accept your word if it means you might injure yourself.”

“I promised you, we would walk out of here.”

Andy thought. “Okay, out of here, that doesn’t have to mean all the way, just out of here”

“Yes, we just want the shots as we go out the door.”

“Nigel, there must be some unbroken chairs on wheels in this rubble. Find two for us and you and Emily can push us to the doors.”

“And you will wipe them!”

“Yes, Miranda.”

Two office chairs of reasonable impressiveness were found and cleaned. Seeing his avenue of escape being delayed again, Lawrence whispered to Nigel, “It’s like being in a cult, isn’t it?”

Nigel ignored him and with a finger under his nose, mused, “We can use the chairs up to the door. Then you stand, walk through the door, pose for the shots. Then we bring the chairs through, you gracefully sit down. We make sure all the shots of you standing are in the clear for the photogs, then we block everything after that. Okay?”

Lawrence sank to the floor. “Why does this have to be like the Academy Awards and not an escape from a burning building?”

Andrea patted him sympathetically on the head and offered, “That’s a decent compromise, Miranda.”

There was a grumbled word of some type, which all took as assent. Andy picked her way to the proffered chair. “That’s the spirit. We're heading home, Glinda!”

Miranda glanced over to her companion as she also slid into the office chair. “Glinda?”

Andy just grinned as Nigel cleared debris out of their path and then took his place behind Andy’s chair. “We’re going to live. Clearly everyone was wrong. You're the good witch.”

Miranda smirked. “One of our upcoming dates… is definitely going to go see Wicked.”

With Emily pushing her boss, they wheeled both casualties to the once clear glass doors. Outside, the helicopters and sirens blared, emergency lights streaked across the doors. “Ready?” Nigel asked, getting a glare that said ‘ _obviously’_ thrown at him.

It was possibly more difficult to stand while holding hands, but both women managed it, looked to the other, and the doors were opened. There was a crash of noise from the square and as they strode through, with nary a hint of limping, the space exploded in light, as flashes lit the night.

Amidst the shouted questions and flashes, Lawrence attempted to make a dash for safety. Unfortunately a small but powerful hand gripped his before he managed his escape. Somehow, while preening to the crowds, and looking far more assured and gorgeous than any survivor of bombs and a ten-story fall should look, Miranda held him tight. Lawrence only saw the space in front of him as life, liberty and happiness being denied by the person holding him back and didn’t care that he was whimpering. “Please? I probably have lost my job, but I’m still alive. Please let me go?”

Without moving her lips, he heard, “You did a reasonable job under very difficult circumstances. Your job will be secured.” A small piece of cardboard was forced into his hand, even though Miranda was looking away from him. “This is my personal card. It will guarantee that.” And with that, Lawrence gratefully, if stunned, raced away.

Serena’s protesters were being roped off to the sides, and as she returned to her seat, Miranda grasped Andy’s hand and pulled her towards them, calling to Nigel, “We are going to speak to those people.”

Emily protested, worried how the media might react. “Lesley isn’t here yet?”

Miranda stared at her former assistant for a moment and then stated, “Emily? Did you say something?”

Emily shook her head.

“ Yes, I thought so.”

The chairs were brought up to the cordon to cheers and shrieks of the crowd. The cameras, film and digital, covered every second. Serena handed Miranda her bullhorn, which raised another cheer, and laughter as she glared at it before accepting.

“Good to see all of you again.” The dry opening may have shocked the outsiders, but the staff only burst into laughter.

“As I’m sure most of you have guessed, I am not the hero.” Andy realised what was coming and reached over to clasp Miranda’s hand to halt her, but instead found her hand held in a firm grip as the fashion mogul continued. “Andréa Sachs deduced the threat, and when no one believed her, came on her own to this site, knowing what might happen, and went on to prove that threat. The only contribution I made, was that I knew Andréa Sachs. And I trusted her. Any of us that know Andy would have done the same.”

More tumultuous cheers, while Andy attempted a seated bow before Miranda, still fearing a blood clot, stopped her.

Andy shouted over the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the woman who organised the saving of all our lives, who would rather pull her tongue than accept your thanks. And for me and on her behalf, thank you. Your delays saved both our lives.”

“Ignore her, she’s writes for a living,” Miranda countered, but there was a rare smile on her face.

The smile dropped and the crowd was instantly silenced. “But now… we survived.”

Miranda paused, and the crowds waited.

“We survived. All of us. Not them,” she pointed to the gathered media. “Not the politicians, or the pundits who will pontificate for the next many days on what they think happened or what it means. WE survived. WE were there. We own this event. No one, not the bombers or the media or our leaders will tell us what to think about this. Or lecture us about the threat from people across the desk, across the street… or across the world.”

Andrea watched in amazement. Miranda had remembered. _“I don't want one single more Muslim kid to be harassed at school because of this. Not one more kid having to see his parents cursed in the streets… because I died._ ” And Miranda hated lecturers. Hated stating her politics publicly, but for her, Ms Nobody, Andrea Sachs, there she was, with a bullhorn, for God’s sake, lecturing the whole of the media and the politicians. If she had ever been unsure of Miranda’s commitment to her, she couldn’t be now.

“Why was this done?” Miranda continued. “Because there are people who want to drive a wedge between us. They want us to hate, they want us to goad our government into an act of revenge. They want us to look at each other with suspicion on the bus and subway. Here’s my response…”

“Screw you.” The near obscenity shocked all and rolled across the square. Miranda waited for its impact to settle. “Screw every one of you. At Elias Clarke, _we are_ the melting pot. I can't put out any of these magazines without every single individual here. I need all the things that influenced you, from the travels, the religion, the books you read and the parents that raised you. The people you love. To do otherwise, to ignore talent because of any of that individuality would be irrational, and these magazines would be poorer and ignorant. Every time we exclude a group that can help us solve problems, we make those solutions harder to find. Every time we exclude a group, we make enemies. Our world needs more than just the white males to solve our problems and the central beliefs of all religions are not about us being less, but being more, being better. Anyone who argues differently, you tell them, SCREW YOU!”

Cheers erupted.

“You weren’t there, I was. I could have died, so I get to decide who is blamed. And I chose love over hate. Inclusion over suspicion. So…” she paused to look about the crowd. “So… One moment, of silence, prayers and thanks for what did not happen… and could have.” Many joined Miranda and bowed their heads, even the reporters doing standups paused. The cameras focussed on Miranda and Andy, the winds swept across the square, and then Miranda raised her face. “And now, back to work.” Many in the crowd laughed, but the eyebrow was raised and they silenced.

“Obviously, some of you will have the morning, and possibly the day off. Nigel and Emily will be asking Facilities and IT to work through this afternoon to get us relocated. I understand arrangements have been made with Vogue to print several issues.” Miranda allowed her distaste to show, before continuing and stating firmly, “this will be our best issue.”

“Anna will no doubt make much about her generosity and we will be grateful. But when our issues are running through their presses, I want every employee in their building to be jealous of you, wishing they worked with us. Can you do that?” The shouted yes in response was like that of an army before a charge into battle. Miranda ostentatiously looked at her watch. “I see that it is almost six AM, you may all take the rest of the night off.”

Andy knew she was exhausted, the adrenaline was finally wearing off, but that was not why she was breathless. Miranda had kept her all promises and more. Worried that a PDA might upset her partner, she only lightly touched her hand, hiding it behind their chairs. “I could be in love with you, Ms Priestly. I think, for the rest of my life.”

Miranda grasped the hand and placed it firmly in her lap. “That was my plan.” The words sounded egotistical, but were belied by the warmth in her eyes. Something the crowd could even see.

A chant began from the front and spread quickly. “Kiss!Kiss!Kiss!”

The bullhorn was raised one last time. With an enigmatic smile, Miranda Priestly stated, “I do not kiss in public…” She returned the bullhorn to Serena, and continued for Andy alone, “…so hurry up and get in the car. You know how much I love to wait.”

As Nigel swivelled her towards the Town car, while the crowds continued to chant, while the world’s media watched, Andy glanced back at the building that had once been their tomb. She asked, “The fire engines are blasting the fires. The building will probably collapse. The Elias Clarke, where we met. A piece of New York lost forever. Shouldn’t we stay and watch?”

Miranda shook her head. “You want us to wait here? As though this is a fireworks exposition? We have more important things to do.” She grasped Andy’s hand again, tugging her into the car. “It's called a future.”

They were just settling into their seats, surrounded by police holding back reporters and well-wishers, when the phone in Andy’s pocket chirped. She couldn’t even remember which phone it was, or what random person might have owned it before she had liberated it from the building, so she only glanced at it, planning to toss it away. Until she read the caller ID.

It was Homeland Security.

She showed the screen to Miranda, and with a grim expression hit accept. “How did you get _this_ number?”

Immediately a familiar monotone flowed out. “Ms Sachs. So glad to hear that you are all right. I want you to know that if there is ever anything that Homeland Security can do for you…”

Both ladies began to smile a very similar, and almost evil, smile. Andy raised the phone to her mouth. “Your concern touches me. Almost as much as the concrete block that struck my head earlier this evening did. You know, from the building with all the bombs we were speaking about only yesterday?”

The bureaucrat was prepared for attitude it seemed, and the voice did not even hesitate. “As I’m sure you know, Ms Sachs, confidence in our department is crucial for the security of the nation and our people. Any discussions or reports that implied any shortcomings in our response could be considered a threat to national security.”

“Any discussions we had were done with full understanding that you were speaking to a reporter, and have been taped and relayed to multiple locations.” Andy countered. Miranda gave an admiring smirk and held her hand tighter. Before the voice could sputter any threats she said, “However, it seems that our little adventure is likely to be made into a movie, books, and certainly many, many major news stories. Though with your help, we might be able to control how some of that information is relayed. I’ve been told that if I can secure statements surrounding the events, such as the exclusive access to any back stories of the boys with the bombs that might have been uncovered by our security agencies, exclusive, mind you, then I might be given carte blanche on how this story is told. IF any other writers or studios were to be shut out or even denied access as a matter of national security. And if I was given that exclusive information, I could be focussing on that. Not spending as much time focussing on events such as, exactly how many times I called your office, or word for word what was said, and specifically who it was I spoke too.”

A throat was cleared. “Of course, I would have to consult…”

Andy cut in, “This is very much a time limited offer.”

“I would definitely consider that offer and again would be happy to help you in any other ways possible if it meant you would see our department in a positive light.”

“That might be asking quite a lot, but if the information we were referring to appeared at Ms Priestly’s home in the next twelve hours, my reports could reflect a compromise.”

“We are always willing to cooperate with the heroes of this great nation, Ms Sachs. In fact, we could help with your Bee costume. You’ve missed a few calls from the costume shop and they are demanding their deposit back.”

Miranda interrupted. “Until rather large new contracts more properly reflecting Andréa’s talents can be drawn up, Andréa’s expenses will all be handled by my accountants.” Miranda glared at the smirk on Andy’s face.

“Ah Ms. Priestly. Perhaps we should discuss…” Miranda, with a glance to Andy to request permission, took the phone from Andréa’s hand and stated firmly, “That’s All.”

The phone was tossed away, and Andréa leaned back into Miranda’s embrace. “We’re really doing this.”

“Andréa, as far as the public is now concerned, we are a couple. I never allowed that to be known publicly until after I married Steven.”

“Then I can look forward to many things you never did with Steven?”

Miranda pulled her even closer. “We will both look forward to that.”

Andy sighed happily. Her headache was not gone, but almost forgotten. “I was still worried, that maybe it was just all that we’ve been through. But you’re paying for my bee costume!!”

“You should be asking yourself if you are sure, not me. Have you even known me to be unsure of a decision once it was made?”

“I know. I can’t help think, Love, that… I’m just me, and you’re you. How did this happen?”

The Town car continued to move forward, the question almost forgotten in the intensity of its occupants’ musings. Miranda finally decided there were far more important things to do, and kissed her soon to be lover gently, before whispering, “I might go on for some time about how I could be asking that same question of myself. What could you possibly see in me? But for efficiencies sake, can we postpone that discussion for… at least twenty years? Twenty years from now, this date, preferably in bed, ask again. But for now, the only tongue I want waggling about in your mouth… is mine.”


End file.
